by Roger Noons
tomato juice with Worcester sauce
Emma’s a phlebotomist. I visit her at the hospital every six months; hand her my form, bare my arm, tighten my fist, clench my teeth and close my eyes. Occasionally, I see her in between times, at her studio. She has a ring through her septum and a tiny jewel either side of her upper lip. Her captivating canines mesmerise me. When she nuzzles my neck, her breath calms me and I dream of a girl with skin art, a soft voice, dark eyes and black spiky hair. A girl who transports me to and from heaven.