∗ 72﹕ sender beats receiver in a video game , for eddie. it took her several times btw but she did it.
arcade becomes cathedral , and it's not metaphorically, not coy, but in full and scorched-neon apocalypse. in melted sherbet light, in joystick-incense rising from the cracked plastic alter of SPACE INVADERS where one chrissy cunningham, blessed by her golden victory, ascends. no other word will do: ascends. because what she performs is not simply winning, not merely out-scoring the metal grinned machine, but dancing a resurrection, a teenage savior spun in keds, cherry dyed tongue and the kind of laughter that burns the wallpaper of time.
eddie, collapsed and corpse-dramatic , forehead bowed to the console like a medieval penitent freshly struck by a bolt. he now exists in two states: murdered by the digitals and spectating her glory. “ no way, no human way. chrissy cunningham has slain. ”
she dances, god does she dance, in that way that is specific to girls who have hung the moon , arms flung aloft, swinging in a loop that rewrites the axis of the mall cosmos, sneakers scuffing on a soda-lacquered carpet. the cabinet's green and violet neon brands her saintly. a halo of 8-bit a annihilation gliding cheekbone, eyelash, a ribbon swished ponytail. eddie is a martyr of domination , splays himself further, curls fanned around him. “ you know how many hours i've clocked on this cabinet ? ” he watches, with something dangerously close to awe. the kind of awe that tastes like it's stretched to its most unbearable sweetness. she hadn't simply won, she radiates triumph.
eddie lifts his head, just enough, and watches her finish her victory like she owns the air and all the suburban cosmos. “ i mean, this is humiliating. look at you. ” and he does. it is not said with bitterness, but something terrible and tender and tastes like finally seeing color after too long underground. a grin crawling slow across a face still haloed in the ache of such spectacular loss. “ nine tries and two slushes later, but you did it. gloat. go on. victory lap. ” her laughter, such laughter, bursting like pinball bells across the arcade, a sound so incandescent against the universe.
