Welcome to the Brunswick Room
Untimely, irrational man: resurrect the harps in pimply purple majesty. Or so I hear her say.
Everyone knew her as Corkscrew, but to herself she was the Lesbian Lunchbox. A feast for all, she was. All delicious snack, she was. Open the Lunchbox, she would absently muse. Usually, she merely felt sorry for herself, and so she, too, would open the Lunchbox. A naughty snack.
But she still had dreams.
At night, when she had flashes of the Cat Massacres of Victor X, the Bad Man would come unto her. Of course, Corkscrew knew that all men were bad. Bad, bad, bad. But he was very bad. He was dangerously bony, and lead dripped from his pipe-like fingers. This very Bad Man - whose nose ought to be rubbed in it - would silently enter the Lunchbox by stealth and whispered promises of grand pianos and cherries.
Nightly, then she was filled with flat, dull and heavy metal: lightness and darkness, like a comet passing by.
And she heaved mightily and curdled by starlight, afraid to cast her net. Poor blue hat pin, tack it to your wall.
"I am a pill," she said, "a small salt gray pill," and she sat in the cold porcelain tub.
The water barely ran red as the Lunchbox flashed shock sharp pink triangles from the dime stores of anarchy. The air before her eyes grew pasty and cloud-puffy white. She had decided to leave this wolrd.
Lunchbox arched her failing neck out and over the rim of the bath.
"There will be a place for me there. A table and a home and a fireplace. Come home, Lunchbox, come home. Welcome to the Brunswick Room."