Fever to Tell

"What are you thinking? she asked.

The tear drew a hot line down his face in the close dark of the bedroom. The pipes ticked; somewhere a car alarm.

How do I tell?

He saw photos before he heard the records, saw the small woman, wide eyed behind straight fringe, junk-shop clothed, microphone swinging.

In the crush and noise of the audience, her arm, sweat sheen reflecting red light, opened something within him, an umbilical seeking to reconnect, hurt at being shut out of where he belonged.

Looking was like wanting to drink the entire sea: yearning unsatisfied by any normal means.

I want to be Karen O, he thought.

To lose weight, to change shape and mould himself like clay, to step sideways into a body that could be decorated in bright colours one moment, the next in sombre black: he wanted it. He imagined pushing fingers into the dough of his face, reshaping his eyes, sharpening his chin, filling out lips, smoothing away stubble.

I want to look at myself and see her looking back.

"I want to be Karen O, he said, with ashamed excitement, burning.

"So do I, she said, laughing as she turned to sleep.

Karen O: http://www.yeahyeahyeahs.com/