Velocities

by Kathe Koja

  “I don’t need a doctor.” Bra off, her flat breasts like airless pancakes, like starving people on TV and without music, without sound she began to dance: not the party dances, not even what she did alone with the barre but something different, more basic, closer to the heart of the bone, and as she danced—panting, sweat down her sides and her face, sweat in her mouth and Edward standing glass in hand, staring and staring and she talked about the prince, the prince and the partner and all her seeking, all her lost and wandering ways: was she talking out loud? and then to the picture, the photograph of Adele: does he know? can he learn, will he ever understand?

  The body does not lie, said Adele. But he is trapped in his body. He was always there, for me, for you but he is trapped, he needs to get out. I could not help him get out so now you must. Get him out—

  —and “Get out,” he said: her whirling body, one leg high, high, even with her shoulder, look at those tendons, that flex and stretch! The difference between lead and air, meat and feathers, hunger and love, and “Listen now,” she said: listen now and the little picture of Adele lit up, bloomed as if light rose from within, lit outward from the heart and with both hands she grabbed for the figurines, jade and crystal, frog and solider and threw them to the floor, at the walls, up and down to smash and glitter, topple and fall and, shouting, he grabbed for her, tried to take her hands, tried to join the dance but he is trapped and “I know,” she said to Adele, the glowing picture, “oh I know,” and when he came for her again she hit him as hard as she could with the ball of her foot, fierce and sure in the crotch to make him go down, fall, lie cramped and curled on the silence of the floor, curled about the red worm of his cock, the cradle of his balls: like a worm caught on the sidewalk, curling in panic in the absence of the earth.

  The body does not lie, said Adele.

  Edward gasping, a wet, weeping sound, and she kicked him again, harder this time, a slow deliberate kick: En pointe, she said with a smile to the picture, and with one finger hooked the G-string from the cresting pelvic arch.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kathe Koja writes novels and short fiction, and creates and produces immersive fiction performances, both solo and with a rotating ensemble of artists. Her work crosses and combines genres, and her books have won awards, been multiply translated, and optioned for film and performance. She is based in Detroit and thinks globally. She can be found at kathekoja.com.

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  Meerkat Press

  Atlanta

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Velocities: Stories

  AT HOME AT EVENTIDE

  BABY

  VELOCITY

  DOWNTOWN CLUBS

  URB CIV

  ON THE WAY FIREFLIES

  COYOTE PASS

  ROAD TRIP

  OVER THERE TOUJOURS

  FAR AND WEE

  THE MARBLE LILY

  LA REINE D’ENFER

  INSIDE PAS DE DEUX

  About the Author

  Landmarks

  Cover