The carpenter takes his shirt off. She says, You’re sexier with your shirt on. He says, But it’s hot. It is, she thinks, but not hot enough.
Twisters
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She said, Our house is so perfect, and he agreed because it was, and she said, It’s so perfect we can’t have sex in it, and he agreed, sadly.
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We were lost in the woods and just as panic set in we stumbled upon a camp of nudists and then another, more visceral, kind of panic set in.
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So then, whatever, LOL. She’s off the phone now and catches me looking at her. Are we despairing for the dire state of youth again? she asks.
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She points to the stains on the wall. I will never again clean this wall, she says. I stare at the wall. I don’t care for this wall, I say.
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I got home from the studio. My mother called. I thought you said the camera only added ten pounds, she said. Then I drank a bottle of vodka.
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She says, You don’t remember any of it? And try as I might I can’t say that I do. No, I say. She kisses me then. We’re good to go, she says.
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I held her close, and though she wanted to struggle she melted into my embrace. This is not poverty, I whispered. We both knew I was a liar.
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I moved her hair from her face. That’s my shield, she laughed, her voice barely audible. I squeezed a zit on her forehead. Only out of love.
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On foggy street corners in quaint European capitals, spies huddle in their trenchcoats, bemoaning their sex lives, eating poorly. So poorly.
