He is the opposite of me on a molecular level. It’s Friday, and I hoped to avoid him, today.
He spots me in the lobby, by the newsstand. “Nice hair, Bailey.” His tone is dripping with irony. I can feel the friction between us. The elevator opens. He gestures for me to get on.
Now, we are in a dry and desert place. The sun burns overhead. There is one leafless tree. “This is your arena,” an alien voice says. “Here, you must fight to the death.”
“Not today,” I say.
“Did you say something, Bailey?” He’s begging for water, for mercy. We are the last two humans on Earth.
“I said, that’s a nice tie.”
A rope appears. It’s alive in my hands. I twist it around his neck. He has a rope, too, binding me. Deftly, I slip out of his clutches. A bright blade gleams in the sun.
Voimaoy lives on the western rim of Chicago, near the expressway and the Blue Line trains. Her writing can be found online at Paragraph Planet, Visual Verse, 101 Fiction and Unbroken Journal. Follow her on Twitter, too— @voimaoy