Disco Pickle

You draw the curtains, an astronaut sealing the quiet void away. We jettison a lightyear from the welcome mat outside, not beholden to the physics behind the door. In here, every sound is heard in every corner, there is a surface to house every shaft of soft light, the air tastes of clashing colors and 1979 and refusing to die. Green shimmers surround us, tiny dollar bills thrown at exposed dancers. We drip salt and vinegar, weightless on your shag carpet stylized to look like moss - a funny trinket reminiscent of the world below. There's an expression people on earth used to use: “I wouldn't trade this for the world.” Here, hovering above your fake forest floor, your weight my gravity, your breath my wind, your heat on my chest, I don't imagine there is a world behind the airtight sealed curtains. I get lost in your cosmos, skating the roller rink of your orbit, wishing on every glow-in-the-dark star. We roll and bounce and groove, every moment trading the world again and again.

Anna Sun is a writer from Guam. She can be found writing in the middle of parks, restaurants, and conversations. She voice acts under the name Rina Sev, and can be found on Instagram @sunwords.sevvoice