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at all- and she'd brought back these lotus flowers from
her spring break trip. You went to the park and sprawled
out on the grass, staring up at the light-polluted sky.

"They're illegal here, I think," she whispered to you,
"but Daddy can get pretty much anything through
customs if he tries hard enough. You eat them. Like this."
Her smile shone white as she placed the petal on her
tongue, her lips so red, so round, so untouchable. You
kept your distance, leaned away, watched the gleam in her
eyes.

The two of you spent that night in an intoxicated
haze, most of it lost to your memory, but there was
laughter, and a relaxed ease, and you woke when the sun
rose, her head on your shoulder, her arm flung over your
chest. You spent so many classes daydreaming of that
high, wishing you had more lotus flowers and more time
to spend with that girl.

But the rush of liftoff is even better; you think you
can taste the adrenaline pounding through your veins,
dizzy with excitement and the sheer joy of holding
yourself up, suspended above the buildings and the
people, so small and so ordinary, below you.

Dad flies up beside you. "Remember what I told you,"
he says, "don't try to go up too far. It's dangerous. Just
follow me - I know where we're going." He spreads his
wings and catches the wind, soaring horizontally away,
over the city, out to sea. You're a good son. You follow.

iv. But then - you are so high, already, and your
wings are catching this current and you are climbing ever
higher and you look up - and there is the sun, hanging in
the sky, like it is waiting for you. When you were little,
Dad always told you not to look directly at it. It will
damage your eyes, he'd said, don't look at it straight on.

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