The Roof Comes Off
by E.P. La Brecque
It did not happen with all of them, my wives and girlfriends, but it happened with a few. Often enough for me to look for it, hope for it: the loss of the ceiling. Opiated by orgasm, I lay on my back, starfished, staring upwards, waiting for the reveal. Sometimes the ceiling peeled away, curving like the top of an anchovy tin. At others it dissipated like mist. At still others it slowly retracted like an observatory door. What skies they were! The ones with the craquelure of branches, limned in gold, at the edge of the frame. The limitless inventory of the clouds. The birds and other winged creatures crossing singly and in flocks, their cries, their buzzing, insisting on existence. Most of the women wanted to snuggle, watch videos, or simply get up and move on to something else. For a while, thanks to them, I was lost to them. Most didn’t understand, which saddened me, given the gift they had given me. One did, though. She took pride in sending me away and then summoning me back—first, unsuccessfully, with a shake, then with a sharp pinch, and then, finally succeeding, with the tip of a just-blown-out match to the arm.
E.P. La Brecque is a writer and essayist who lives in Northern California and Detroit. He makes his living as a brand strategist and namer. His story "Merv" appeared in February in On The Run. His stories have also recently appeared in The Fabulist and Switch. More at @appstory and at eplabrecque.com.