Stroboscopic Motion #1 by Ray Crist

My memory from that night is a dying roll of film unspooling in my head. I try to grasp the moving pictures, but all that's left are frozen frames strewn haphazardly across my mind.

Which are:

First frame - my golden lit, shadow soaked bedroom. The edible tastes like chocolate; it feels gooey on my tongue. I get your text. “Hey, what are you doing.” In a drunk haze - I downed four shots an hour prior - I have a lightbulb moment: I want to go driving. “Nothing much. Pick me up?” Within moments, my head starts to soar.

Second frame - the brake lights of your car bleed into the midnight black of the streets. I slide into the passenger seat; you sit awkwardly behind the wheel with an expression full of excitement and anxiety. This was a bad idea.

Third frame - I stare out the window of your dark parked car, as I lie on my back across the seats. My field of view could have been a Rothko: “White Light Against Dark Blue Background.” The fine details are smudged, the lines of finer edges remain unknown. I stare at the harsh glaring light, cast down by divine judgment. Or, as I would learn, the street lamp outside the Korean church by my house.

My body is numb. I feel as though I’m floating but my body has begun to dissolve and separate, the individual pieces destined to drift apart to distant shores. I know you are there somewhere beneath my field of view, trying to give me pleasure, but only as an abstraction. I notice the distinct nauseating feeling of wanting to leave, but I don't move. At least this means you find me hot. Have you finished yet?

Fourth frame - Somehow we are parked outside my house again. I grab the door handle. Sway to my feet. I turn to wave goodbye, but before I can discern your figure:  

[Fade to black.]