Wife Me Up
made dinner for myself and it was good, it was beautiful, it tasted and
looked right. Someone should wife me up. I'd make such a great wife.
It took me a whole winter squash pancake to realize I had been someone's
wife. Had been wifed. Up? Why was that where I went? Wifed or un, isn't
the next step mommy? Someone should mom me up.
But I didn't want that, just as I never wanted to be a wife, either.
Paramour, sure, but real life would never abide such lengths of black
lace. Inamorata, more like vampire. In fact more like unicorn, in fact
more like bat. Strung, netted. Wily octopus, big-eyed squid, to be
cephalopod, I was always so cuttly.
After dinner there was dessert, and whiskey I drank straight from the
bottle to wash me out. I did not do the dishes, not for four days, drank
only coffee and no water, bathed only when the crotch of my underwear took
on the pale misery of mayonnaise, only then, with the words panties
and archival dry-cleaning worn away with the undersea memory of
hugging that white dress heavier than I was and crying and crying, not
wanting to never wear it again, the C-grade pornography and the last
cunnilingus, the river cruise and the funny hats, all of it smudged off of
me, wiped up.
Lisa Locascio's debut novel, OPEN ME, is due out this year from Grove Atlantic.
Read more of her work in the archive.
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of Lohan Gunaweera.
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