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Summary
Sometimes Naim dreams about yellow fields.
Yellow like the scleras of Ryan’s eyes when he’s going down on his knees, fingers curling into fists, mouth opening slow, slow, to house a scream he can’t let out because he’s choking, he’s on his side, on his back in the grass, on his back under Naim’s body, under Naim’s hands, a not-Naim, a really-Naim-this-time, the dust of an abandoned building around them, on a dark street, in a backyard, under the moving shadows of the laundry on a line, choking himself sick, yellow like all of that, the sickness, pus pressing his skin taut and up.