by Blake Arnold
I watched my body rise out of bed, don the black sweatshirt, dark jeans, gloves and wool cap I picked up from the Goodwill, and slip out the back door into the night. Her presence so overwhelmed me that before she dumped me I could feel it when she was about to call: not like precognition, like truth, so I knew she wasn't home. She called me Hurricane Charlie because I let my emotions take me over when I was hurt but I was just going for a drive. The blue and red lights and whir of the siren appeared out of nowhere. They shouldn't have arrested me just for sitting in front of her apartment. The plastic bags were an impulse purchase as was the hack saw.
Blake Arnold writes dark fiction and comedy. He spent several years doing spoken word with the ambient band The Cosmic Debris and resides in Los Angeles.