Last Violent Call

by Chloe Gong

Science could tell him that the ground was below his feet and the sky was above his head and the early light of day was upon his back. Roma wouldn’t listen. To him, Juliette was the sun.

“That’s ridiculous—I would never kick him onto the sofa,” Juliette replied. “If he ever angers me, a better punishment would be for him to continue sleeping next to me, feeling the power of my wrath.”

“I have an internal compass that centers on you instead of true north.”

Love, she thought, was that kernel of warmth nestled deeper in her chest, glowing with a sense of comfort whenever Roma’s eyes were on her—the same comfort she’d first found when they were fifteen, everlasting.

The last star could burn out and the oceans could dry to nothing, but Benedikt would be there,

Benedikt kissed like he painted: with consuming, frantic inspiration before slowing down to find the details and pinpoints.