"Good Seal"

I straighten my bow-tie and tuck my shirt in again. My father's tuxedo hangs off of me and every time I adjust the sleeves I blow my alibi of being a man. My armpits are transparent with sweat and cologne. She is in a dress and I don’t know how to describe it. Shiny. Beautiful. Purple? She tells me I smell like gasoline and I hush her as we crawl into the cannon. The seal is already in there and he doesn’t make a peep, just like we agreed. If the ring leader hosting the show out in the big-top knew we were in here he’d beat me with a big shoe.

We are packed in tight, sealed in total darkness. We are greased with elephant fat to ensure a smooth take-off. The fuse is on its last fibers. Boom. We rocket out of the cannon, me and her hugging this seal, Lucas, the Lord’s most beautiful and slippery creature. We shoot skyward, through the tent and towards the heavens. Cool sky melts behind us and the clowns are screaming from the ground, noisy ants, some red, some black, some in a tiny car. The moon beckons us and with a gust of wind, an exhalation from God, my tuxedo slips off of me and I am revealed for the creature I am: long, gangly, greasy, young, and eager. My father died in that tuxedo, caught on the wrong end of a black market pancake deal gone sour, but I will die without it. Her dress is torn in two and she grips Lucas the seal, nude and free and joyous. We lock eyes as the world becomes a period and we know we have transcended the finality of our terrestrial bind. Lucas balances a beach ball on his nose. It does not waver in the two-hundred mile-per-hour wind. Good seal.

We are Adam and Eve. Adam and Eve and Lucas the seal. We kiss passionately over Mercury and the hairs on our neck stand up. Is it the magic moment? Is this the hand of God urging us to a new universe, beckoning us to populate it? I feel we have defied physics, because how can fireworks exist in outer space? Or is it the heat of the sun’s rays igniting our epidermis? The flames grow stronger and the almighty sun engulfs our field of vision. Pure yellow, pure red, pure fire. Lucas’s blood boils and the steam smells of berries. The stench hits me and I know how wrong I was. We are no Adam and Eve. We are Icarus. The heat rays make contact with the thick layer of cologne on my skin and with a Devil's handshake they merge, lighting my acne-scarred skin on fire. Pure hellfire licks my face and body. We are a shooting star. We are a ball of light, pure energy, pure wonder, pure pain, an unbreakable bond glued together by our mutual enjoyment of a Motion City Soundtrack song. I sniff and realize she was right all along: I do smell like gasoline. My lady and I are blinded and we embrace, knowing our fate is to be broiled on the surface of the sun.

Those, sir, are my intentions with your daughter. I hope that you will trust her with me during tonight’s homecoming dance.