We don’t notice King Kong atop the tallest skyscraper or Godzilla emerging from the ocean. The world is ending, but you and I are climaxing – first you, then me. A volcano erupts on the horizon, a perfect parallel to the eruption in your lap.
It’s forever dusk here; the dreamy period after release from the dark credit scroll of a movie, or a twinkling nap, the kind when you might wake to be five years old again.
No one loves Roku City like us. No one has loved like us. No one has ever felt the way I feel about you, but you for me – you tell me so in Roku City.
I feel like I’m in high school again, you admit underneath me, breathless. It’s how I feel too; ask me how I lost my virginity, I will say I was thirty-one years old, in Roku City.
We are better off there are no chapels in Roku City. I would run to it, racing boyfriend down the aisle to become husband. We could buy a house here and have children and set all our movies in Roku City. We’ll retire here; we’ll pick out cemetery plots. It will be as quiet six feet under in the purple dirt as it is now, in the serene hush of the streets in lamplight and the cars floating by in the city we call home.
Our daughter will bring the love of her life to Roku City. She will tell them there was no love before her parents created it. Visitors will flock to the spot in Roku City – a statue of a bronze remote, tall, phallic, rubbed gleaming at the top like a shining, erect penis. It is where we fell in love.
You and I can establish Roku City as the new capital of New York and the USA and the world’s central hub for all things. The city survives attacks on the daily; indestructible. The good guy always wins here. Love is eternal and I never have to turn off the TV.