An autopsy of time would expose midnight at this LA rave as a buildup of greedy seconds poisoned by impatience. I’ve often wondered what it’d be like to split my brain open, unravel my memories like noodles that’d squirm because I’d boiled them too long. Melancholy weaves her way around my noodle and I split into a million different versions of myself.
I’m attending the event cause an old colleague is catering and I’m assisting. The theme is Locust, or hunger, a charitable masquerade pretending to empathize with the impoverished and destitute. There’s thousands who’ve starved the whole week to gather at this factory on the outskirts of town and smoke exotic herbs to alter their perceptions. Many of the women resemble spirits with all the smoke around us, rippling into thin mirages that meander frenetically. What would a lifetime with any of them be like? I spot a Chinese girl who’s statuesque enough to fit into Roman porn with her chipped breasts and ivory ass. She notices my glance, approaches and introduces herself as, “Ella. I combined the Spanish words for the feminine and masculine ‘the.’”
“I’m Byron,” I reply.
She shakes my hand. “Tell me a secret.”
“Why don’t you go first?” I suggest.
She simpers. “I’ve lost my reflection.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me show you.”
She pulls me into the girl’s bathroom and points at the mirror. I see my ugly self and twenty girls behind, but no Ella.