We meet in the hotel bar. It’s late, and our conversation drifts toward hope and longing. Let’s go, I say. I touch her. You’ll do, she says.
Twisters
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Our words convey emotion, an inner life made public with each utterance, every sound we make. So when she finally says, Wow, I feel complete.
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When we were young we laughed and and ate bad things and then we were no longer young and we stopped laughing because we started eating kale.
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I order a burger. But she brings me a milkshake. I ordered a burger, I complain. We stare at each other. Don’t tell me what to do, she says.
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Do you use Polident because you should, she tells me. She’s drunk, surely. But that doesn’t stop me from staring into the mirror all evening.
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She says, What would you do? I bite into an orange and savor it. Does my answer matter? I ask. We gaze at the sky together. Toward infinity.
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She birthed an egg. The doctors said it was impossible. As did the media. But the father of the egg said it was not. Because it had happened.
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They found it in the square. It was large and green and smelled foul. Kind of like Lenny’s boil, the mayor joked. He was a joker, our mayor.
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I hung up the painting and did a victory dance and said, Our victories used to be so much sweeter, and we both looked at our kids and laughed.
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She says, Try this cheese. She puts it in my mouth. I say, This tastes like my underarms smell. She says, Just about. And then she kisses me.
