from “Mega-City Redux”

Buffy doesn’t care about winning the office chili cookoff, but she does want her enemies to lose. For once, this is not a feat of strength. For once, justice means one line in a song you recognize as you. The recipe says “tbs” but this must be a mistranslation. Her co-workers sneeze and whisper.

Xena doesn’t take to cross-country skiing, doesn’t understand the point of kicking and gliding down the trails, dragging ourselves uphill by our poles. Her sword is her center of gravity. She yearns, predictably, for more adventure. But up close, Xena’s armor looks cheap: brass cups around the breast plates, plastic sheen to her skirt’s studded tassels.

For much of the road trip, Buffy eats cheesy puffs and sings along to unedited rap. We pass a giant peach and a town called Squirrel Level, billboards for Cracker Barrel, Jesus, and Trucker Showers. Neither of us wears shoes. Midway through Drake’s third album, she hits “mute” and looks at me. “I want kids, a husband, and a house. And I don’t want to work.” Then she starts to weep, orange-dusted hands splayed open in her lap. I change lanes to avoid a shred of tire.

Yes, I fell in love with a woman in a screen. A conceptualization of a woman—how is this different than The Gaze? But it is so easy to replace her love’s face with mine. Her lips pressed against my cheek. Lying in bed with Buffy, I dream of a series of simultaneous wives, and I dream of the woman in the screen. The only thing that can wake me is morning.