There’s coyotes yipping outside my window, but the darkness conceals them and their eyes don’t reflect light like I imagined in my head. Or maybe it’s just the Dover boys from down the street looking for a little excitement to escape this desert limbo. Maybe they meant something else when they said jackels cry like girls.
A neon glow bathes my room and I look outside and there you are, standing among the silhouettes of burnt oak trees. Your form is black and stilted and you fit in perfectly.
I’m surprised you found my house among the other beige bricks. We blend into the hills. The road between two houses is infinite and your only company is the petulant heat wave. The desert swallows all. Turn the bowls upside-down or there will be dust in them at morning.
I go outside and lie down on the cracked desert earth. The flimsy screen door slams shut. No coyotes in the night. It is still.
Your cigarette smoke coils upward as you turn over, exhaling nicotine bliss but leaving thick tar in your lungs. I say nothing, but curl my nose into your wind-whipped arm.
You’re the realest thing in Las Vegas, you say. That isn’t saying much.