Dear Wigleaf,

Back from shopping, I'm just about to sit down, raise my legs, when he asks, did I buy Doritos? No, I'm telling him. I'm not perfect, I cannot remember everything, you could have texted me about it.

He puffs up, and then leaves.

His small brow is wrinkled up and twisted.

Much later, when we are in bed, and he wears his teddy bear cap, he shows me how hurt he is. This is our dynamic, I'm afraid. His dire sensitivity fizzing over the lip of my non-reactive personality cup.

Sweetness, I say, I do not know why you need so much consolation.

He takes my hand and kisses it. I think of his roiling belly, his endless sugary cravings. Later, with the light still on, he asks me if I will be comfortable with his girth. You mean fucking? I say. I know that this will offend him, and I like it. It's part of the little game that we're playing. That's how it happens, I say. Let's turn off the light, and you can pretend to be blind, searching the world over for me with your fingertips. Okey-dokey, he says, fingertips ready, all ten of them—like tentacles.




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