Donkey Kong Country D’eux
Kelsie Hahn
Dixie asks Diddy for migraine medication. One pill. All she wants at this point. She doesn’t care about his time or attention, flowers or candy, promises or whispers, the soft touch of fingers through fur. She’s given up on those. Just the migraine medication, please, or Vicodin, Oxycodone, heroin, anything to numb the pain in her scalp, the strain of weight on her roots, the sea sickness, the constant spinning, spinning, spinning.
She used to think it was cute they had the same last name. The paperwork would be easier if, when. She wanted him to ask her on a beach free of oil barrels. She wanted him to toast banana gin with her over the closing papers on their tree house. She wanted him to join her in doting on furry babes. She wanted him to fight with her and make up with her, over and over again. She wanted him to trust her utterly in the tight places, in hospitals or courtrooms or jail cells. To know that they would battle back-to-back always. To partner her in the adventure of life.
Now, she wants him to pull over. “There’s a drugstore,” she says, reaching. All he must do is steer the barrel’s turn. He shakes free of her primate arm, pulls his cap low, aims for a golden coin.