De-Story, She Said

February 20th, 2009

My red-toothed words are gonna leave the cleaning sting of this all-natural anise toothpaste hookwormed and sinkered to the staples in your stomach, that’s what she’d always say just before a friendly match of dodge-the-lit-cigarette-butt. Was a game that I’d regularly win, or so the holes in the drapes just left of my right ear would have me believe, but since I think often enough about what she might have meant, I have to go ahead and think these things aloud (talking to oneself a much more forgivable crime than admission of even the most numinous of voices-in-head).

So really, I asked her, are you just trying to set my hair aflame, and if so, can we do it without the whiplasherie? I might let you. I’ve been curious a time or three; we all have. And what about hookworm? Have you been poisoning my food again?

Instead of a response she flicked another round, which I think she won, a perfect 10-point-ohh! still barely there and only to be made out by someone with eyes sharp as her susurratory skills. And while her eyes themselves weren’t deserving of sharp, they weren’t entirely unadorned, vulcanized or just made vapid from my own less-than-decent aim but better-than-dumb luck.

I mostly don’t remember if we’re sisters or lovers, though if she’d loosen the tenterhooks so that I could take a breather I’m sure I could remember for the both of us by morning.

Because really, after an arduous day behind the shield, all one can ever want come nightfall is a tender rub-to-brow. I cut her a break because she told me she was present at the crucifix, and I believe her even though I know spectator sport simply doesn’t leave her with the gastricjuice morningbreath that purrs her motor.

(But I’m getting ahead of myself and not keeping score and that last one just grazed my cheek. Not a direct hit, no, but not a near-miss either and the scorekeeping is more fuzzy than her vision at this point.)

In Spanish, ‘puzzle’ is ‘rompecabeza’ and don’t think that’s just what’s gonna happen to your own little head as soon as you tuck off for the night, this is what she’s saying now, though I only half-listen when she speaks in tongues and dares to scratch my soundtrack.

The judge here has long been sidelined and so we’ve been stuck at love for what seems like always, and for the most part I can convince myself that I like it here, that my game’s just as solid, and that her errors themselves are the chosen ones. Though sometimes eternal volleying can tire any able arm.

But I’ve read the books on this and I know now that these are signs of trouble and in the next chapter will realise this can’t go on much longer. I’ve forced shots out of worse, with steady hand and clean cloth, and hell, she’s down to her last smoke and it’s due time someone break her serve.

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