So, she is not the woman you thought she was but a man, probably
half of the time, popping his lips to this inside jazz, slanted pockets
on either side of his hips, thin metal button stuck in a wink at the
fly. She would awake and know she was having one of his days — walk
straight off dream's wing and go to the bathroom sink and see. Quiet
as wood, he would be careful to stand on his side of the mirror; his,
the raspberry eyes of oddball insects, brown irises all broken up,
kaleidoscopic. Hardest was when she would find herself talking with
some man she'd like to know more. Suddenly, raspberry eyes might start
stroking her chin, remark on the rightness of the word waylay
or oleaginous, or whisper something gravid with joy, like the
tangerine's sneeze is quiet as the rind comes off, and she would
laugh mutely and keep looking interested, figuring the guy could probably
smell her aftershave.
|
