Posted on: January 16th, 2010 My Corrosive Angel

by Mark Mills

Yes, she was beautiful but her breasts were corrosive. Wood warped, metal turned to rust, stone broke down to sand—nothing exposed to them could stand. When she danced at the Blind Fox Grill, the beer taps flaked away and the pole crumbled before the next girl took the stage.

“She’s an incarnation of Kali, goddess of sex and murder,” an old man said, stuffing a two-dollar bill in her G-string.

“Fool,” I spat. “She’s an angel.”

“Well,” he replied, wiping red-brown flakes from his wrist. “Your angel just melted my watchband.”

Angel or demon, she never stayed at the same club for long. True, she drew the crowds, but that couldn’t make up for the property damages. I sought her in the streets but nobody knew her address, nobody knew where she hailed from. After work she squeezed into thick metallic chestplates that blackened and smoldered after a few hours, but even with such a clue to work with, I could never track her.

She was alone: her breasts an unforgiving wall around her heart. One morning during rush hour, she stripped to the waist on the Golden Gate Bridge. Three dozen commuters tumbled down with her, their cars dissolved before hitting the water. Now they all vilify her, they curse her, they sow all kinds of hate about her but I know better. I have looked beyond her breasts to a vista unseen by other men.

I now begin each day by descending in my bathysphere, searching for that tell-tale cloud of hazy, corrupted water. Each day I follow her path across the sea floor as it leads me farther and farther into the deep, where the sunlight never reaches, where the fish have neither eyes nor color. I sink lower with each expedition, knowing that one day we will be together, that not even the greatest of walls is insurmountable, and that of all things gold does not corrode.

Filed under: bad-ass, stories

--Brain Harvest