I hear the mouth of the zipper, and the same scent from the classroom comes back to me, the scent of his private skin, the pink of him, the sound of his hand against himself.

“Is this OK?” he asks.

I nod. He moves slowly, gently, staring deep into my eyes in the dimming lavender sunset against the red quarry swells as he sinks into me, my breath catching from the pain and pleasure of it, the early hint of love between us.

THE NEXT MORNING BRINGS THE NUMB sun. The air is warm, summer heat preparing for the day. I cannot bring my body out of bed.

“I’m sick,” I explain to my mother.

“Poor thing,” she says, rubbing my forehead. “You look bloodless. Let me take care of you.”

She piles the bedside table with soup, medicine, tissues, leftover cake. It all stays untouched. I am still covered in his terrible fingers, his teeth, his tongue, his saliva my new skin.

I curl into myself, sleep when the ache gets too big to breathe.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” MY mother asks. “You don’t harvest anymore.”

“It’s boring. Who cares about meat? Who?” I snap.

“Better you’re here cleaning anyway, where you belong.”

My hands are full of lemons. I feel covered in ash.

“CAN I SEE YOU AGAIN?” JARRED ASKS IN the hall at school, weeks later, weeks after not speaking, not making eye contact.

His mouth keeps moving, but I cannot hear a sound. The world has gone blank. There is no blood left in me.

I DREAM OF THE MEAT QUARRY, MY BODY pressed deep into the red again. I writhe in the meat and rip at the walls, harvesting faster than ever, screaming.

PAIN NUMBS THE SKIN, THE COLORS, THE dazzle of the world. The moon no longer speaks to me. I become the pale void, an empty pink shell.

Part II

PART II

I RENT A SMALL APARTMENT FAR FROM The Acres, distant from the Meat Quarry, in the belly of the city. Each month, I send in the rent. The apartment is mine that way: I pay to keep my body there at night.

Each morning, I read the jobs section of the newspaper, black print fingers streaking my face and the white walls of the apartment. The headlines read:

LEGAL CLERK NEEDED
ODD JOB EXPERT DESIRED
POSITION VACANT
CAREER OPPORTUNITY
WANTED: PASSIONATE TYPIST

LET ME TELL YOU HOW THE CITY FEELS to me: It is an orchestra of rusting metal, heaving trucks and sharp silver buildings, full of bodies, faces, color, electricity.

On the small squares of grass, there are small piles of dog shit. In each concrete corner, there is a small pool of urine. On the walls, there are electric scrawls of graffiti in a language I do not know.