“I lie in the blood of you. I am God.”
The “blood of you” made no sense to her, like it made no sense to me. It seemed like a thing to say and I had been drinking vodka.
“I am God, I am so God. We need to lie down naked.” So she lied down naked and I lied next to her. I ran my fingers through her hair and felt the hairspray coat me, licked it off. If I moved my tongue into her mouth she would have tasted the chemicals. I thought of the baths I took as a child in the old porcelain tub. The rings marked each time we forgot to drain away our filthy soup.
“Is God so special?” I asked.
“You are to me,” she told me.
“I understand Him, you know. I understand how overwhelmed He is. He’s not sitting on a cloud, He isn’t watching. The heavens exploded and now I am God, with you.”
“You’re so God. I’m God, too. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She said it again and again and whimpered. I whimpered with her and we said sorry for all those things that we fucked up and hated too much to talk about.
The next day, I made scrambled eggs before she woke up. They were so bright and yellow, like a brand new sundress, I swear.