He, Clarius
... as if tired, falls to the floor and Clarius turns to face the noise, but not his entire body, Clarius is not, like the other patrons...
He says that people are strawberries, that people can be picked and that you can pop them in your mouth and masticate them and that their body-juice will drip from your chin; he says that he is pregnant with the aborted children of 1980s AIDS victims; he says that there are more people alive today than have ever before been dead; he says that once, at the 2012 DNC, one out of every ten delegates was gay, that you just had to look to see; he—Clarius—says, It hasn’t always been this way, and Jillian, his Sister, sighs, she knows that he eats sticks of butter, that he closes his eyes and pictures fingers and masturbates ambiguously (hoping for climax to catch him by surprise), ejaculating into socks that he doesn’t wash, and he smells like onions and he smells like bleach and he—Clarius—says that bath salts do him and Jillian just rolls her eyes, she listens to him as, after leaving the House, they make for Providence Art to escape the heat and yes, inside the shop it is cool, it is air conditioned, and cold seeps through Clarius’ pores, his skin, and he’s a lizard and his eyes transition—such is the nature of the store’s strange lighting—and much around Clarius is distressed, as if cast within the light of an artificial shadow, and a large mylar balloon (the shape of a NO. 2 pencil) floats near the cash register and the balloon pops, loud as a gunshot the balloon in its popping and its ribbon, as if tired, falls to the floor and Clarius turns to face the noise, but not his entire body, Clarius is not, like the other patrons—like his Sister, Jillian—startled, and he rotates his head and he cuts his eyes and this movement, irrespective of its slightness, places Clarius in a position to see a woman slap her child and he sees the boy open his mouth and bring a hand to his face and Clarius does the same and of those who bear witness only Clarius is moved, only Clarius approaches the woman, the child rigid, a sculpture cast in an umbrella stroller and Clarius, hands folded between his thighs, bends at the waist and he smiles at the boy and his vision has cleared and the boy’s eyes glitter as Clarius and the child make eye contact and the child stops crying and Clarius rests a finger on the boy’s hand and the woman says, Don’t touch him, and Clarius steps to the woman, his beard in her face and he says, Touch, and then, lowering his head, Okay, Ma’am, and then, raising his eyes to the ceiling, Whatever you say, Massa, and he turns and takes a step, and then another (as if to leave) but no, Touch, Clarius hisses, and Jillian should have known better than to feel relieved—she’ll chide herself later, by the fountain, when Clairus becomes a dog—and the woman doesn’t stop smiling when she sees Clarius stop, this happens (she stops smiling) when he turns to face her and she says, Don’t let that thing near me, and she points, she looks around the shop for support and her face is scarlet and the moon-shaped scar below her right eye gleams white and she is pretty only she has been made ugly with anger and to Jillian she says, Don’t you let it come any closer, I know all about you two, and Clarius smiles, he says, You, too, and he steps to the woman and, his face to hers, whispers, I won’t, but remember this, bitch, and he continues, he says, Remember, and he continues, he says, Remember that until the day I die someone knows, and is going to discuss, what you did in here, and he smiles, he says, You’re cursed, woman, and he adds, backing away, Every time you hear the word touch you, and he spits on the floor, he says, You’re gonna think of me and he, Clarius, bright eyes black holes of privity (he, which is to say Endwell’s, cenobite; who, like they say, makes virtue out of necessity; who fails, in the face of reason, to trust understanding; who dismisses duality; who accepts experience; he who sees everything – and this despite all that he sees), says, As long as I fucking live, and he, Clarius, raises a hand and the woman flinches and he laughs and makes the sign of the cross and whispers, after snapping his fingers, Poof, and then, turning his attention to the boy, says, You, and he rests a hand atop his head and he stares down the mother as he says, By the power invested in me and the state of Cardi B., you, kiddo, get to forget this morning ever happened and, clapping his hands, he says to Jillian, From one Cis to another, how about we make like Santy Claws and leave their presence, and Clarius grabs Jillian by the hand, spins on a foot, and, sashaying from the room, he looks over a shoulder and says, Don’t forget to remember, monster, and Clarius bends, he frees the ribbon from the popped balloon and hands the ribbon to Jillian who says, That’s not ours, and Clarius says, It is now, and Jillian says, Clarius, I don’t want this ribbon, and Clarius says, It’s not a ribbon, Sissy, it’s a leash, and the bell rings as the door closes behind them and they are outside only Jillian wishes they weren’t for too much has happened, too much is going to happen, and it’s so hot and it’s not even noon and they should just go back to the House but they can’t because Clarius has his appointment and Clarius grabs the ribbon, his leash, and, making for a tree laughs, only it’s not so much a laugh as a bark and Jillian follows him and when he stops, turns to face her, and says, Trust me, you’re going to need it, Jillian nods, Jillian believes.
Richard writes and teaches outside Ithaca, NY. A Perry Morgan Fellow from Old Dominion University's MFA program, and recipient of the David Scott Sutelan Memorial Scholarship, his fiction and poetry is featured in numerous publications. His debut novel, Being Dead, was published fall, 2023, and is available where books are sold. His novel, DYING MAN IN LIVING ROOM, is forthcoming from ELJ Editions, 2026. He is @coy_harlingen on Twitter.
