‘m his darling, and he hates my dog. Which sucks because Bruno is my canine angel, and his breath is like a rancid something wonderful. A rank pie.
To love that is something.
This has something to do with the hum of a day so long it becomes a week. I sip burning liquors to please him. My man lives for the expression of fine, fine spirits.
He says his sister really had wings, and that is how she died, she believed it. They all did, he said, the kids. They were kids of course.
I believed my own sister flew when I was young, so I understood. This had something to do with the freak who lives inside many of us, always wearing a hat and seeing things from a corner of the room – one with a tiny problem, a tiny bend in the rim.
That is childhood.
But now, for example, the fullness of dog breath, unlike the silent empty stomach pain when the phone doesn’t ring, is telling the truth. Neutral things bore me, like when he says he does not like mustard. Because he does not eat meat and vegetarians have no need for go-getter garnishes. Fake yellow dye, food coloring, toxins, free radicals, fear of cancer seems to take up so many of his living hours.
My man is a fine liquor connoisseur. His words swirl around me deadly as sneaker wave every time he laughs.
“Fancy that,” he says, “unbroken shells”. He listens to shells from my collection carefully for the sound of the ocean, though the ocean is only blocks away.
The days we see each other, I want to litter the grass and not care. A dog would never ask one to define the difference between absinthe and ouzo, tiny descriptive words that make somebody feel stupid if they don’t get it right.