KNIFE SLIDES almost all the way
down my thigh when I am hiding it. My leg is not so long, Knife is.
When I dive like a swan it is because Knife has found its object and
swings my arm behind it. Knife is an agent, and I am Knife's keeper.
Knife has no wings but can fly. And the short, swift leaps are the
hardest, requiring whole days of disuse and psychic preparation. When I go back to Mystic Arts it is for blood. Been four weeks without a fix and I had enough of blacks bothering me the first of the month and Halloween left me wanting to test drive this knife . . . at least enough to shake up that nigger chick. But just as suddenly as my angel was taken away there she is again, where I left her the day I was afraid, and coming around the counter she looks at me with a dirtier eye and curlier mouth than I've ever seen on any of the mamas in the club. Man! she's some woman! But different from the way I remember her.
"Hi, I'm Sunshine," she says, and rakes my chest hair with long, candy-apple nails, tugging aside my denim vest. She licks my tit!
