The wig arrived in a pretty pink box. I’d ordered it online from a wig shop. Silky, blonde and long, it felt as if I were entertaining a movie star in my hallway. Grace Kelly in a box on my couch. So nice to meet you, I said, slipping it on.
I’ll do the liberating for both of us, doll, he says.
Bob’s ego sometimes got stuck and its nobody’s business where.
My dark-haired lover explained marriage was like an animal. “There’s a smell when it dies,” he said. I let my marriage trickle out.
I imagined climbing the Everest of his body, perching on the top of his belly like a sexy squid, dangling my breasts over the shelf of his face like fishing lines.
I had his phone number, the guy from the A.A. meeting. I held it in my hands. I was terrible on the phone, but he would never call me. He said he couldn’t approach women. It was up to me.
Tonight, Albert Albertson took me to a foreign film at the Cinemaclub – a Norwegian film in which ten gorgeous people died. The women had agonizingly beautiful noses. Their deaths were as agonizing as their noses, and it seemed fitting, or at least it fit, and I didn’t feel as sad as I would have felt watching normally attractive people die.