Camila + Haruki
I waited three bloody days before boarding flight 1440. I had to use three old EMW’s to pay for my ticket too—a price that far exceeded the normal AII (Asteroid Inflationary Index), but I honestly didn’t care. I would have donated both my kidneys if that would have helped me get back. Once I was riding HK Hovercraft, all I could think about was Camila, the smell of her body heat, the way she pulled on the last dregs of her Skyway joints and fell asleep on my lap, drool drenching my crotch like I'd just had a wet dream. I thought of how she'd cut me off two weeks ago and them muted me (which she normally only did with obsessive ex's, a troubling historical parallel), the perfect conspicuousness of her shoulder mole, the way it stood tall and mysterious like a misplaced nipple. I had never felt such pricked longing, such linear fear, such imprecise demise, for anyone in my life and for any reason. I had never felt so much desire and trembling for any woman before in my entire life. As much as I loathed this feeling of uncertainty and dread, I almost didn't want it to end.