Vox Mentis

Hang on a sec. You're thinking in the moment too much.

Remember, the poets sent you out here. Now, if they were doing that, wouldn't they want someone keeping tabs on you?

Imagine this scenario. Your unseen watcher learns about what you've been doing. They decide to use it for a test, or maybe a punishment for squandering your talents. Exact reason doesn't matter right now.

What matters is that a mystery poet riled up a bunch of angry girlfriends and sent them after you.

Or maybe he's not such a mystery, considering someone showed up right afterwards and saved your life, and now you can't stop thinking about him. Yeah, that can happen on its own, but you were also just kicked out of an organization of people who spend a lot of time learning how to make that kind of thing happen.

Maybe this is what this whole Broken Hill mess is about. It's one big test to see if you can persuade "Danny" to let you leave. Or maybe he's just tormenting you for kicks, wouldn't be the first time someone in this organization has tried to play around with you.

...or, maybe you're getting paranoid. But it fits with what you know enough to be worth a little test.

Go to the van, and try to lead the conversation towards poetry.

no way that's the correct paramedic van

You feel panic. Is this all part of some sort of test? Is Danny some sort of poet plant, here to make sure you never leave? And you're falling for him... but, no, you're over him, remember? You forgot that for a second. You relax. You begin to look for him, casually. Besides, there's probably no way that's his paramedic van.

You hope you do see him, so you can discover exactly how plain and boring he is when he's not carrying your tooth in his mouth. So you can see if he really is just a poet fucking with you, or just some backwoods Australian bimbo in a wifebeater. You eat your burger.

You see him. It might be him. He's coming down the sidewalk, talking to a woman. He shakes his head and it definitely is him. He's cute. You might have been suffering from head trauma but you do have taste. He's broad shouldered. His arms are incredible. He's not wearing a wifebeater. As he draws closer, you peg his age at maybe twenty-five. The woman is an attractive brunette you've seen featured in real estate advertisements. She laughs at something Danny says, tossing her hair, and you're totally fine with that. You wish Ms. Real Estate the very best of luck with her handsome Australian paramedic/possibly poet.

You almost let them walk by. Then you decide what the hell. If he's not a poet, there's no problem, so why not? If he's a poet, you'll know. “Hello.”

He stops. His eyes: You'd forgotten those. “You’re . . .”

“Toothless.”

“Right.” You see him thinking about the flowers. He had found that awkward. The awkwardness is genuine. If he was faking it, you'd know. Chances of him being a poet decrease.

“Just wanted to say thanks,” you say. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

The real estate woman smiles and snakes a hand into Danny’s. He seems relieved that you're not turning on the crazy. “No problem.” The real estate woman begins to lead him away. Suddenly he skips back to your table and sticks out his hand. “I’m Danny.”

You take his hand, surprised, and he grins.

"Hey," you say, "Are you into poetry?" Fishing for a reaction. Any reaction.

He gives you one. Genuine confusion. "Sorry, not much into poetry." He turns, and looks back. "Though you make a good case!" He smiles, and returns to the real estate woman.

You feel unsettled. You watch him walk away. What was that? He's not a poet. Not with that look he gave. A poet would lock that shit down. Did he just try to pick you up though? That's outrageous. You pick up your Coke and look after him again. No way is this guy a plant. You were just being paranoid; of course he was there right away, somebody probably called as soon as they saw the fight happen. This guy is the genuine article. Your heart is jumping. You think, Ah, fuck.

~

You decide to sleep with him and get it over with. It's the only way. He's become an annoying jingle, striking in the shower, or at work, or just as you're falling asleep. You have to at least kiss him deeply and completely, in a way that leaves nothing behind. So you can move on. So you can stop imagining it. You can't keep losing yourself to the jingle. It's impairing your ability to function. Once you turn him into a toy, like those boys in Tangled Threads, it'll be all right. You'll be back in control.

You buy a dress, a little black scrap from Tangled Threads that you'd talked away from three potential customers in case of an occasion like this. You do your hair, going for volume. You detonate mascara. Friday night, you push into a smoke-filled sweat tank in the main bar, the pub, and look for him. The place is full of bright-eyed teenagers and crusted-on miners, opposing demographics, normally, united by their passion for beer and angry guitars. A boy screams, “Vince!” in your ear. These are reasons you don't normally come here. You do a lap and begin to feel discouraged. Then you spy him at the bar with a few other young men in collared shirts. You walk up and yell, “Hi!”

Danny smiles at you.

“Buy me a drink!” you say.

~

Four hours later, your head buzzing, you're in the passenger seat of his paramedic van, being driven home. Not to your home. To his. You've unsnapped your seat belt and draped yourself across him, kissing his neck, nibbling his ear, which is an excellent way to die in a car accident, if you'd thought about that. But you didn't. You thought only of getting him alone in a room and doing terrible things. He drives and drives and finally stops. A dog slobbers on your legs and you scream and he picks you up. You like that. It reminds you of how you met.

His house is dark but there's a bed and a moon outside. You try to unbutton his pants and he says no, and you say, Yes, putting some emphasis behind it, a little lower frequency that sounds commanding, but it doesn’t work. On the bed he touches your neck and this is what you've been missing, you realize: All of your predatory behavior included no reciprocity. And that's important. You'd forgotten. You go after him again and this time he takes your wrists in one hand and traps them on the pillow above your head. “I want you,” you say. “Let me touch you.”

“No,” he says, and you find this even more arousing, for some reason. You do enjoy a challenge. But his hands move down your body and you lose the will to argue. “Yes,” you say, “yes, yes.” You see glittering eyes in the darkness outside, his dog, watching you, but you don't care. You're going somewhere else. His touch is careful and you realize you hadn’t really known what it was like to be cared for. It's a night of newness. He holds you and his fingers move and then your climax moves through you like a thunderclap, like a force of nature, something you can't control at all, and you have to lie still until you can find yourself. He lets go of your wrists. He's still wearing pants. You need to address that. “Now,” you say, and finally he nods, and says, “Now,” and you basically attack him.

~

In the morning you wake and he's not there. You sit up. The bedroom has no curtains. Beyond the window is flat earth as far as the horizon. The bedroom is a crime scene of twisted sheets and scattered clothes. Aside from the bed, there's no furniture. No paintings. No photos.

On the kitchen table you find a note:

Gone for a ride. Help yourself to brekky.