Cole Mohr and I stare into the cake, fully clothed. Does he even eat anymore?
"I can't wait to get into this," says Cole Mohr.
"But, I need some music to put me into the mood."
I put on some Melt-Banana and his eyes fire outwards. He takes off his shirt. I wish I were Japanese.
I ask him about his tattoo, but he's still staring at the cake. The icing has melted slightly over the course of the past two hours, so the pink and white have begun to mesh.
I slide a knife through the cake and offer him a piece. Quietly, Cole Mohr slips one skinny finger over the icing. He's shivering. He places the finger in his mouth.
"Oh my god." At this point his eyes are closed, and his face explodes into tics. He opens them curtly and jogs to the bathroom.
I follow him in and find the floor covered in red thread. His throat expands with every propulsion. Skin straps tighter against his ribs. His lips try to form words, but they’re stiffening, engorged. I move to the telephone to call an ambulance. I fumble the keys and give them all the wrong directions.
The thread snakes its way around my feet. I pick up one end and pull as hard as I can. The rest of the thread bundles into the hallway and Cole Mohr crawls out, panting.
I walk into the kitchen, cut the cake and place the pieces in a plastic container. Cole Mohr grabs the edge of my shirt and licks my lips. They’re white and pink.
Marcus Whale almost only writes at gloveandcradle.blogspot.com, at least until the name starts to seem lame. He lives in Sydney, Australia.