Ouroboros
Cora Lee
A sexy neighbor moves in downstairs. I see her in the driveway, unloading everything she owns. Her apartment has the same layout as mine, I bet. I can hear her through the floor, moving from room to room, hammering or vacuuming or whistling to herself.
I want to invite her up, but I don’t want her to see my ankle bracelet. I paint the tips of my toes, then my fingers. I try to make up new names for my polish colors. Swan Dive, Fit of Passion, Behold a Pale Horse.
My sexy neighbor washes her car in the driveway. The soapy water makes a shadow on the concrete. The car dries in the sun after she goes inside. But then, that night, it rains. I hope my sexy neighbor doesn’t feel like it was all a waste. I’ve been trying not to think of time as something that can be wasted. Early Bird Special, Vengeful God. They could give me a job doing this and I would be so good at it that you could pick a shade on name alone, I think.
I want to tell my sexy neighbor all these things. I would tell her we’re not that different, her and I, not all that different, except that I’ve done a couple bad things. Instead I lay on the ground to be closer to the wall socket. I have to charge my ankle monitor twice a day, for two hours each time. The carpet bristles against my cheek. I imagine a line of colors and I name each one: Daydream, Sweet Dream, Pipe Dream, Lucid Dream, Bad Dream, American Dream, Sex Dream, Prophetic Dream, Fever Dream, Dream Come True.
Cora Lee is a born and raised San Diego girl. She writes two columns—Dispatch from Paradise for Mail Mag and Hot Girl Lit for Byline. Her essays and fiction have appeared in Literary Hub, Hobart, Expat Press, and The Drunken Canal, among other places. Find her cruising around America's Finest City in her Ranger or at coralee.net.