“I’m not disappearing. You just need to focus,” I said.
Her physical self was in front of me but in an alternate realm. Her long black hair got caught in the electrical current between us and brushed my skin.
I savor those moments, the way you do a rainbow before it disappears as you jettison down the highway.
I heard her take a deep breath and the air stirred around me. One of those rare times her invisible presence was tangible.
The sight of her flickered in front of me.
“I can see you,” I barked, like it was a contest to see who would say it first. “Your eyes are closed. And your skin… it’s white as a Lilly.”
“I can see you too. But you’re upside down.” She sounded disappointed.
“No. YOU’RE upside down.”
She huffed. “Before you disappear again, my name is Cliché.” Her voice was sultry and warm, like a jazz singer in a smoke-filled club.
“It’s okay,” I soothed. “I won’t make fun of it.”
“No,” she giggled. “That’s my name. Cliché.”
“Oh. Your parents must have had a sense of humor.” I tried coming up with something clever and cliché but failed.
“I was conceived in a petri dish. And raised by cyborgs whose sole purpose was to teach me how to serve men.”
We lost the connection for a brief moment. Until I was once again love-smacked by the sound of her voice.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
She flickered in front of me, this time still. A frozen frame of perfect beauty. Our lips brushed. Our skin sizzled. She smelled of vanilla and tasted like honey.
Is that cliché?