There, don’t you see him? That’s his eye, his right eye. It’s gleaming in the daytime, reflecting the sunshine from outside. He looks like a serpent. His nose is buttoned up, his nostrils kept under control from flaring. The metal grids on his lower cheek substitute for his scales.
He’s touching the curb. Maybe when you’re not watching he will lick it. And open his mouth and breathe out fire. And maybe his eyes will light up like the scorching sun. The roaring will come from deep within his belly.
This boy, he looks so masculine. Cars are girls to boys, but to girls, they are boys. We always like The Other. Whatever someone says, it will always be the opposite for us. This one is definitely a boy. Look at his features. They are so well-defined, so sharp. His jaw is a perfect angular.
I know he’s trying to touch the curb. Like he wants to kiss it. Like he wants to open his mouth and eat it. Or maybe just bite it for taste, and then let go when he’s had enough. He’s not there, but he’s almost there.
Will it hurt? He doesn’t care. Will it feel good? He doesn’t know till he’s tried. He has heard that it will burn. He has been told that it will scrape his scales, and they will send him to the workshop.
There he’ll be touched by dirty, dirty hands. There’ll be oily fingers, rubbing his cheeks down, smoothing his face out. There there’ll be sweaty, smelly hands.
There they will leave you to sleep alone in the corner, for as many days as they couldn’t be bothered. Until they decide to work on you.
There they will hurt you, they say. But they will make you pretty again.