American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 27

“We have sex until we
are weightless, two
small bodies locked
together inside a
vast galaxy.”

m o n l e vc h e n kova

Mirrored Hand, 2014

9 • FI CTION

When Carson comes back, he brings a ladder.
“Someone was just going to throw this away,” he says.
We move the ladder to the middle of the room and stand it up
like an inverted V. There are five metal rungs, and after I climb
them I sit at the top and reach up my hands to touch the rough
swatches of white paint on our ceiling. From here, I can spray the
air plants without craning my neck and see each crinkly leaf on the
ferns. Carson has a turn as well. He is taller and the fit is tighter,
but he sits with his back straight and examines the walls.
The next day, he brings home long planks of wood, which he
paints dark brown. He nails metal supports high up on the walls
as he waits for the paint to dry. Then he lays the wood over the
supports and secures them into place.
“Now we need some books,” he says when he is done.
It is almost midnight, so we wait to get the books. We admire
our bookshelves from our mattress, which sits on the ground, maximizing our distance from the shelves.
“I feel like we’re ants,” I whisper into his neck.
“Are ants super quiet?” he whispers back to me.
“They’re the quietest.”
He rolls up over me and shouts in my face, “Maybe we’re astronauts. Who have to yell across space.”
In outer space, astronauts are as small as ants. Perhaps even
smaller. I swing him back down so that I am on top. “Houston, do
you copy?”
“Roger that.” He slides two fingers into my boxer shorts. “Have