When I can’t stand the burning any longer, I go over to the honeysuckle clinging to the front of the house, piggybacked on the five-finger ivy. I pick a flower, pull out the stamen, and let the honey drop on my tongue. A really stupid thought pops into my head: flowers taste better than boys. I’m such an idiot, but for once that thought doesn’t get me down. It’s so hot. My skin tingles hard, like a violin string, like the surface of a drum. There must be music coming off of me. Maybe I can just stay here forever. It might not be that long.

I think I hear the phone ring, and I freeze, ready to sprint inside, but it’s just one of those noises my brain makes.

I settle back onto the rock and stare out at the ocean. It’s not so bad right now.

I have a hard time thinking about a wave. Like, a single wave. I see them as more a they than an it. They’re beasts, a school of them. A swarm. They move with one brain for a common purpose, making more waves.

The tide’s gone in, gentle, orderly, diligent. The waves are Japanese. Their shape is just how they look in prints and on plates; they were definitely invented overseas. The perfection in the way they roll, many in a single unit. Orderly as time, the back pushing its way over to the front. Life went and got perfect, literally a couple of minutes ago, and maybe it’ll stay like this for a while, maybe all day even, but I’ve never been as lucky as that.

* * *

It’s uphill most of the way west to the garden. I have a pair of Lolly’s khaki shorts strapped on with a patent leather belt, which, thankfully, my T-shirt hides. Maybe I get too caught up in thinking about times I put my foot in my mouth or about the Swans who are shitty to me. I’m probably being too sensitive. Most of them don’t mind me being here too much; being a little cold to me is just part of it. They know I’m a valuable object in the Bad Place: my energy, my health, my body and face. I have a lifetime ahead of me of buying shit made by slaves and then shipped around the world to be bought by wage slaves. When the army recruiters and traffickers and groomers do their rounds, I’m the one they’re looking for. Everything to envy and everything to pity about me, these are the things people worship in the Bad Place. I’d reject it too if I was old enough. Instead of taking it personally, I might as well put my difference to good use.