The American Inquisition


  “Something on your mind?” Katy Perry asks, and I realize she’s been watching me for a little while. We’re near our destination now but our breath is catching in our chests and we are definitely starting to feel the accomplishment take its toll.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lie – badly, I might add, – but she glances away. Satisfied, sated, or perhaps just unwilling to pursue the topic any further. For all she knows my idle thoughts are as boring as I wish they would be. I wish I didn’t have her constantly on my mind; it feels dangerous. I’m not letting myself hope, not daring to, but like the stairs the memories of her kind of creep up on me. From nowhere the heartbreak of two years ago is as fresh as if it were yesterday.

  “What was she like?” she asks suddenly, without turning around.

  “What?” I reply, alarmed; I’d never told anyone about her.

  “Katy Perry,” Katy Perry responds innocently, “what was she like?”

  “She had great boobs,” I say absently, my relief seemingly corrupting my internal censor for a fraction of a moment. Katy Perry laughs though, and it’s good. We hit our destination, the radome, and I stop to catch my breath at the top. I glance with trepidation down the corridor, towards the unknown failure’s that sit, potently potential, in my minds eye.

  “What say we go for the top?” I ask, not exactly thrilled at the idea of a few more flights but less excited by the prospect of the big reveal more so. Katy Perry is ecstatic. I gulp down a worldful of air and it oxidises my blood and my heart calls for reinforcements and I’m off again. I was always an adept procrastinator.


~ by Joseph Blame on March 21, 2011.

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