Y. (an excerpt from Headless Corpse Therapist)

How long have we been here?

Where’s here?

Hoboken, 1972. A field

across from the Gimbals.

Oh. I thought you were speaking

ontologically.

No. You lost your head a

few seconds ago.

I know I lost my head for a

bit. That’s irrelevant—

No. I mean you lost your

head a few seconds ago. We

were in a plane, remember,

trying to make it into the mile-

high club, trying to pretend that

when we landed we were

going to see each other again,

I wasn’t going to go back to

just being another boring

school teacher, and you

weren’t just going to forget

about me like all your other

rock star conquests.

Seriously. I don’t have a head

anymore? That is going to make

it remarkably difficult to play

the drums, won’t it?

I’d say.

How come you’re so calm? I mean

we just had a messy plane crash

which clearly sliced my head clean

off my body and now you’re cradling

the bloody mass of my skull like

a baby doll.

Why am I so calm? Because I

caused this all to happen.

I was the one who made sure

I’d be the one woman you’d

never forget, the one person

who wouldn’t wind up as your

discarded cum rag.

You what?

I caused the plane crash. You

weren’t supposed to die

though.

That’s lovely.

Clearly I wasn’t thinking

rationally. Come on. I’m

obviously a little crazy. I

watched seventy people

die and rather than call

an ambulance, I’m sitting

in a field outside a shopping

mall, cradling your head.

Well, I wouldn’t give you an Sanity

award. How exactly did you think

you were going to survive?

Who said I was supposed

to survive?

Oh.

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