The Incendiaries

by R.O. Kwon

She swayed left, right, bare shoulders sliding. Others writhed to the frenzied tempo, but Phoebe’s hips beat out a slowed-down song. Punch-stained red cups split underfoot, opening into plastic petals. Palms open, she levitated both hands. The room clattered into motion, rising to spin. She dipped, glided along its tilt, and still she moved to the calm rhythm she’d found, dragging the beat until my pulse joined hers.

Once, while hiking with my parents, I’d watched a starling flock in motion, the confusion of birds mobbing about like nets full of fish until they’d lifted, all at once, shape-shifting into a braided coil that flung, agile, whip-tight, into the horizon.

Is it only in hindsight that I notice an isolated figure at the end of the street, watching us, or does the clarity with which I see him outlined in faint light prove it’s a fiction? Each time I’ve reviewed what I’ve kept of this evening, I’m less sure.