Rubbing beasts that itch at untouchable bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling, her speakers make a sound like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had any of the cards in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts or a jack of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now, in her black room, colored by the glow of some techni-cyclops' cavernous mouth, crimson, heart-shaped teeth, and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine of love, or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does, her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels jump into a constantly buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face, and Carmen knows this is the look of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know what lowered human beings do when they are restless.
She is seeking something moreso philosophical than ******.
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no, now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other, and if you like me then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence, this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands, finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of a tiger ocean, ****** cakes, slushies, a sun-****** sky, a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.