Head

My girlfriend and I made a deal: she could go back to Boston, but I got to keep her head. She did the severing and everything—I just watched. Held her hand because I knew it’d be a while ‘til I could hold it again. It unnerved me how dry it was. I thought she should’ve been nervous to lose her head—or to leave me behind at the very least.

“Are you nervous?” I asked, squeezing her fingers. Letting her know she could be honest with me.

“No. This thing is too heavy, anyway.” And then it—her head—was on the floor. She let go of my hand. Picked up her already packed suitcase while I picked up her head and dabbed at her neck but it was a clean swipe. Minimal bleeding. Close to none.

With one hand already on the doorknob, she gave me a slight wave with her suitcase hand. It looked more like a shrug. I didn’t say anything, just watched the door close behind her.

 

I prop her head on the couch, sit next to it. Her, I mean. I want to call her by her name but it feels wrong because it’s not really her. It’s just her head.

“Is it okay if I call you Head?” I ask the head.

“Yes.” Head replies, without smiling.

In fact, it’s hard to read her emotions despite only being a face. Her body language was more telling, I suppose. I want her to like being a head, I want her to like being with me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want her to go to Boston to visit her family, I was just afraid. I didn’t want her to never come back. I didn’t want her to meet a more attractive, financially stable dude in the city and forget all about me. She’s beautiful, still without a head, and that can make a guy like me pretty anxious.

“Should we kiss?” I ask Head.

“I guess,” Head says, closing her eyes.

I pick her up by her ears. A few spare drops of blood fall on my knee and I don’t mind. Her eyes look bluer, her lips fuller. Her mole, shaped like a diamond, is suddenly much more pronounced above her lip. I want to lick it.

She makes a face. Not a happy one. “That’s different,” she declares, her eyes still shut.

Right. She tastes like a pear. I could eat her whole.

“It is different,” I agree.

It’s incredible.

I don’t like going places alone. I never have. It’s not my thing. That’s what’s great about Head, I just plop her in my backpack—cracked for air, of course—and she comes with me everywhere. The library. Coffee shop. Laundromat. She’s like my own magic 8 ball.

“Hey, Head, should I read Camus or Kant this week?”

She sniffles from below my shoulder blade.

“Yeah, you’re right, I’ll go for Rand.” I expect a sound of approval, but nothing.

“Hey, Head, you want a latte?” I wait for a laugh that doesn’t come. “Ha, just joking, Silly Head. You can’t digest anything!”

I sip my latte and whisper the words to The Romantic Manifesto so Head can enjoy it with me. A few people at the laundromat offer odd looks, seeing me whisper into my backpack, but I pay them no mind. Head has her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open. She looks relaxed, I think. I keep reading.

 

Hitting week three, or four, I’m missing Head’s body. I thought she would be back now. I thought that was part of the deal. I don’t think she needs her family as bad as she needs me. She can’t! I can’t remember Head before she was Head but I remember sleeping better before all this. I place Head directly atop a body pillow, even tape her neck down, but it’s no good. And she snores. Loud. Though she does smell good, like minestrone soup, the kind Mom used to make during the winter, which is a relief.

In the mornings, Head and I begin our designated kissing time which always begins by me sucking on her mole. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but it tastes exotic and concentrated in my mouth—a soup I haven’t tasted yet. The mole’s been growing, which I ask Head if is normal, if it usually grows, and she responds with a blank stare at me. A look that’s hard to decipher. Classic Head.

Head’s not using enough tongue, so I shove mine deeper in her throat hoping she gets the hint. She doesn’t and instead, retreats. Not today, my little Head! I bite her tongue in an effort to bring it deep into my own mouth, but stop when I feel it loosen. I lurch away.

Head’s eyes are wide at me. Her tongue dangles from my mouth. Long and pink and wrong. Unsure what to do, and feeling guilty, I slurp it up. Hiding the evidence.

Her mouth opens, but no words fall out. Tears prick at her eyes then fall.

“No, no!” I say, still swallowing, “I’m sorry, Head!”

I don’t want her to cry because I hate when she cries so I start licking up her tears, like a dog does to make things better. I lick and lick and am surprised by the sweetness of her tears. I pull back for a moment to examine her, and she’s eyes wide, looking horrified or excited, I cannot tell.

Before I can think twice, I’m biting her eye. Sucking it out of the socket. It comes out easy and I go for the second. It’s bulbous and surprisingly firm but above all, flavorful. I look at Head now, with no tongue and no eyes and I feel bad, really, I do. But I’m still hungry. And if she can’t see and can’t talk, what’s the point?

I go for the mole.

 

Not a Thing

The boys, learning to be men, sat next to each other on the old, beige couch. The couch creaked with every move they made so they silently agreed not to move so much. The sound wasn’t sweet. They thought maybe they’d break it, the way they break a lot of things.

Did you love her? Elijah asked. He was often mistaken for a woman in the nighttime—his tiny build, his shoulder-length hair.

I mean, I know you did. Do you still?

The basement was dirty and cold but the men liked it. Spent all of their time together there.

The taller, stronger one, Topher, cleared his throat: I miss her more than I love her.

Elijah nodded. He understood. The two stared forward, as if they were watching TV but they weren’t. They weren’t watching anything.

How about you? Topher nodded at his friend, Did you love her?

The air was heavy between them. It smelled like a basement smells—dusty and a little romantic. The silence went on longer than either of them were comfortable with. Then, Elijah gave a little nod. A shameful nod, as in, yes, but I can’t talk about it. As in, yes, but if I say that, everything’s ruined. He changed the subject.

What’d you like the most about her?

Topher made a sound close to a laugh but he wasn’t laughing.

Her humor, probably.

Elijah did laugh. A cutting chuckle.

Why’s that funny?

Because that could mean anything.

Okay, it means she’s funny.

Right, but funny how?

Topher paused, turned towards his friend,

What do you mean, funny how? You know how. You know how she’s funny. It’s just her.

Right, but she wasn’t really funny when she was trying to be. Her reactions to things, her dumb face, that was funny.

She was funny when she tried to be.

Yeah, I guess.

They fell quiet. Topher was considering all the ways someone could be funny. Elijah thought of specific moments.

How about you? Topher asked, Favorite thing.

Same. Humor.

Elijah tried to smile but couldn’t.

Least favorite thing?

Jeez, man, I mean, com—

I know, but still. Flaws. Everyone’s got ‘em.

Yeah, we’re human.

Yeah, Topher agreed, Her anger issues. Stubbornness.

You’re stubborn.

Yeah, you’re angry.

Yeah.

You gotta have something. I know you do.

I know. She scared me sometimes.

Pussy.

Elijah didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Topher went on,

I know what you mean though. I still have the holes in my walls.

That’s not what I mean, though.

In a brave moment of honesty, Elijah added,

You deserved that.

Topher nodded, cold, as if he understood, but the air in the room told Elijah he didn’t get it, not really. Despite that, he continued,

Scared me in the way I thought she could break at any given moment. Like a delicate firework. That’s stupid but—

But yeah. Breakable. Explosive.

Yeah, and her drinking. Her smoking. And you know how my mo–

Yeah, man, I know your mom.

Right. And they aren’t the same bu–

But I get it.

And for once, Topher actually did understand what Elijah was saying to him.

The two continued to sit, unmoving, looking forward. They looked at each other occasionally, but in a way it felt like breaking. Breaking what, they didn’t know, but it’s what it felt like.

She could be annoying, Elijah finally admitted, a tiny laugh.

Often. Very often.

Sometimes I think I hate her.

Often, Topher said again, caught off guard by Elijah’s tone. He sounded scared, or lost, or like he was underwater and doing everything possible to get the words out but water wouldn’t stop rushing, rushing.

Elijah’s head hung low,

But I know that’s because she’s a lot like me.

You don’t suck my dick—

Come on, man. Don’t do that.

Just saying. You guys loved to pull that shit. Like you were family? Brother and sister? Alabama shit?  Be real. You don’t fuck your family.

You don’t gotta say it like that—

What? Honest? Shut up, dude—

I’m being honest, too, Toph—

You’d never fuck your real sister—

Obviously not, dick. Just because you don’t get it doesn’t make it any less true,

He glanced at his friend, sharp,

Or less of what it was.

Then Elijah finally looked at her.

Her dead body lying there, her warmth slipping away. He imagined he could see the heat, run his fingers through it. Or maybe she was already ice cold. He was too afraid to touch her, to check.

Yeah, well, whatever, Topher grumbled, kicking his feet, nearly hitting her corpse,

I get it.

Don’t do that, man, you guys had a real—

Doesn’t matter anymore.

Topher sounded angry but calm. Sounded like he wanted to fucking kill Elijah, but he was all he had.

But it’s gotta—

Elijah’s voice crumbled, like he knew he was as hopeless as he felt, if not more—

It can’t all be for nothing.

Can’t it? Topher grabbed the girl’s arm, limp, pulled her flat body towards him, her lips parted. His friend watched, his expression mute.

She’d always say, everything happens for a reason,

He isolated her pointer finger, put it in his mouth and used her nail to pick out the leftovers stuck in his teeth. Elijah kept watching.

Yeah? What’s the reason for this then? Topher managed to get the words out with her finger in his mouth. Then he spit it out—the scrap of food, too.

Bullshit.

Elijah felt bad, but he always felt bad. He was sentimental and not because it meant anything special to him, but because of what it meant not to be.

“I love her,” he finally said. He waited for the world to burn, the ground to give, for Topher to look at him and see him for the first time in a long while. For her to wake up, as if this was all just a bad plotline. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not a thing.