By Redfern Boyd

We make out in the back of the cab. Even at our glacial pace over the potholes I keep my hands on her knee for leverage. Reassuring—which of us, who knows—in the dark, thick air. She doesn’t push me down and throw her weight forward, crush-like, or lean into the nook between the seat and the door so I have to press my palm against the window. Unlike the others. Every breath she takes draws mine from me, extracting some demon whose chokehold is tight enough to convince me I need it to survive. I’m not even sure I know where we’re headed. Her tongue does figure eights in my mouth.

Redfern Boyd (she/her) often writes about travel, pop culture, and things famous people have said when they thought no one was listening. Her short fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and photography have appeared in numerous digital and print publications; she also serves as Poetry Editor of the Connecticut Literary Festival Anthology, vol. 2, due out in fall 2021. She holds the MA in English from Central Connecticut State University. A New England native, she now lives in Berlin, Germany. Connect with her on Twitter (@CeciliaGelato) and Instagram (@c_m_giglio), and visit her at