At the end of winter, I was looking to blow some money on something fragile and undemanding. I bought the Instant Back with my Diana camera because I knew no one had patience on St Denis street after 6pm. I wanted to be as happy as the faces on the instax mini fujifilm, rainbows and bears screwing without prejudice inside my hair. I wanted that. You said, Lomography is a scam run by straight, white, billionaire men and I said, Show me something that isn’t. You were arguing about your digital camera with the Chinese owner of Photo St Denis. His wife took my credit card and smiled without looking away. We went down the stairs and heard her screaming at her husband in Chinese. You almost broke the dashboard of your Mustang when you punched it so hard because I said, No and I couldn’t stop crying. We fought randomly on St Denis street at least 3 times a week so we could have sex later where I’d pretend to cry and actually cry while you would force your cock inside my mouth and say, See how much I love you.

Vince, the concierge of our apartment complex would knock on our apartment door in the middle of the night when the shouting got worse. The neighbors downstairs were scared that you were not leaving me alone and I was scared you would. Alex, our upstairs neighbor had parties every weekend and the smoke would get into our bedroom through closed windows. I would wrap our Ikea duvet around my throat, pretending to inhale every smell and ask you, What is that? Weed, you would say. Alex had given you his cellphone number in case we wanted some weed. He asked you to text him instead of calling the cops and you told him you liked Rihanna better than Drake so he always played Rihanna too loud. Vince’s wife was from Bulgaria and would always stop speaking every time she saw me in the hallway trying to catch the elevator so I didn’t have to face the neighbors. I remember we were about to drive to Provigo for groceries when Vince waved at us and smiled while blowing cigarette smoke into our faces. He held up my short shorts that I had lost a week ago. Fake denim blue had faded and they looked like they could fit on my hands. His wife had found them behind the washing machine while doing laundry. I knew I wanted to wear them and eat only hard boiled eggs.

I was wearing fake denim short shorts and taking selfies of my camel toe during the worst snowstorm of the month when Alex came looking for you. He asked if I wanted any weed and I told him I had no cash on me but he could stare my camel toe if he wanted. I starting smoking a joint and Alex was staring, laughing. I asked what the fuck his problem was and he said he saw us yesterday. Yesterday you were crying in your Mustang and your hand was bleeding. The rear-view mirror was in pieces and I was sure I was going to die. Between the screams, I saw a middle aged woman jogging with her dog, reach frantically for her cellphone and I knew the cops were on their way. We were parked in front of our building on Cote-Des Neiges and you were crying, begging for me to stop. Stop what? I’d ask but you’d never answer. Breathing was not a choice. The cops took us apart and my cop asked if I was hurt and I said yes and then I said no. He asked if I had ID and I didn’t so I said yes. I saw you trying to act tough with your cop but he was having none of it. You said, My license plate is New York and the cop said, So what? It was Montreal and he will not be intimidated by an American. Americans are not welcome anywhere, you said. You held up your hands and they let us go with a warning. Later you texted your dad to ask for money to fix your car. You said a cyclist did it.

Alex got up and came over to where I was sitting. He put his hand on my thigh and I said, Do it properly. He put his hand inside my short shorts and found my underwear. He started to rub my pussy and said, I want to eat you out. I told him how off putting those words were, like from a cheap movie, barely surviving on a student budget and got up to make coffee. I said if he wanted a cup he could stay but I don’t have any sugar. He left and gave me some extra weed in case I got horny and couldn’t stop.

You came back with a BBQ chicken in one hand and emptiness mainly. We sat down and I heard you chewing your piece of chicken and imagined you biting and chewing off the flesh from my shoulder. I said, I’m not hungry, my bones hurt. You watched me walk away and kept chewing. I turned on the tv and one of the Avengers movie was playing. Scarlett Johansson was showing mad motorcycle riding skills while kicking ass. It’s special effects and stunt double, no way she does that. She was pregnant. I pretended the air was Scarlett Johansson’s ass and I rubbed my face against her invisible ass cheek. I checked my email later on your laptop because you broke mine by accident when you were rolling on the floor, crying and had gotten up too fast. I checked your history and stared at ‘Scarlett Johansson nude’. You tell me later you're feeling uneasy and maybe the chicken wasn’t a good idea. I offered you some weed that Alex had given me and we both smoked in silence. You put your hand on top of mine on top of my chest. My nipples felt like rice pudding, unrefrigerated. I could see broken pieces of dead chicken still under your fingernails, stuck and unmoving threads of BBQ flesh.

Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian female writer. Her 1st chapbook 'I have hard feelings & I wish I could quit chocolate' was published by Moloko House press in 2016, her 2nd chapbook 'candied pussy' is forthcoming from Thistlemilk Press. She tumbls at http://nkrannie.tumblr.com/ and instagrams @nookskrannie.