Monthly Archives: June 2015

2015/06/25

A Fit Object for Man’s Love

By dsholloway

She let her jeans slide down, muttering something about a Japanese myth: the pieces should fit together like a puzzle, or something.

That’s not how the myth goes, but I got the gist.

I pushed her to the bed and yanked my belt off. The buckle (an ostentatious L and V fused together like ugly conjoined twins) crashed to the floor with a thud. I disrobed the rest of her with a practiced hand.

(After fucking my fiftieth girl, I threw myself a party at a bar. Balloons and everything–HAPPY FITYITH. Bystanders congratulated me even though I “look[ed] no older than 30.”)

I dramatically pried apart her legs as though she were resisting. Then I stopped.

“What’s wrong,” she cooed, playing her role.

“I’m sorry, ” I said. “What do you want me to do with this?” I was staring at an angular opening, like the corner of a jigsaw puzzle. She recoiled on cue. “Asshole! I told you: like a puzzle piece.”

I pulled my pants up and fetched my expensive belt. “I thought you were misquoting,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Could it be, I’m not as smart as I think I am,” I wondered on my way out.

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2015/06/18

What It Takes To Be King

By dsholloway

“Be careful with these,” I instructed, handing the shoe cobbler a very expensive and badly scarred pair of high heels.

……….

I lit them on fire last week, after our most recent fight, but came to my senses before the damage turned irreparable. Dousing the shoes in water, I put them with her other shoes.

I fished them out, carved the letter K into the sole of the left shoe. Then I put them back again, pleased.

“Let’s go out,” she said later, apparently ready to be a loving couple again. “Somewhere fancy. I’ll wear my Louboutins.”

“Wait,” I said, steeling myself for something awful…

……….

“Call me when they’re fixed,” she texted later, having left angrily.

……….

The shoe cobbler was young. She was too pretty, her nails too long and skirt too short to be someone who toiled over footwear all day. But whatever. I handed her the shoes.

……….

That night the shoe cobbler came to my door wearing only the Louboutins. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting,” she said in a voice that belonged to someone else. She moved to take the shoes off, as is customary in my house. I grabbed her hand: “You’d probably better not.”

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2015/06/17

An Economy of Crisis

By dsholloway

“I’ll have that ‘up’ please,” I said, shooting my thumb into the air as though I were a hitchhiker. The bartender smiled. I watched her limbs labor over my cocktail.

“Would you like a garnish,” she asked, transferring my cocktail from shaker to glass.

“A woman. Blonde. Green eyes. Thin.”
Without a word, the bartender snatched my cocktail and disappeared somewhere behind the bar, leaving me with a muted TV broadcasting the finance channel and a juke box that played only Soundgarden songs.
She returned a moment later. “Here you are sir,” she said through grated teeth, slamming my glass on the bar top.
I felt her eyes on me.
I grabbed the stem of the glass and readied to swirl the liquid inside.
“Careful sir,” the bartender said. “She might drown if you do that.”
Bringing my cocktail to my face, I looked closely at the woman inside: blonde, light eyes. She was treading water and growing tired. I looked at the bartender.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” She forced the words.
I scrutinized the woman swimming in my cocktail. “Actually,” I began, “she looks a little fat. I hate to be difficult, but would you remake this?”

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2015/06/16

The Fraught Moment of Exposure

By dsholloway

She was topless, staring at a tattoo on her right ribcage–flowery script, four lines deep. A towel was in a pile at her feet; she had been readying to take a shower.

We locked eyes in the mirror.

“This wasn’t here last night,” she said to me but probably more to herself.

I grew defensive. “What do you want me to do about it?” I left the bathroom, shutting the door behind me–shutting her in there with her new and nonconsensual tattoo.

……….

I knew that tattoo. It was the same one my ex-girlfriend got on her right ribs. A verse from some obsequious poem. “It reminds me of you, K,” she had said.

When we were breaking up she bragged of planning to have it removed: “It’ll be like taking off a dress.”

……….

The sobs from the other side of the bathroom door continued. I slid a business card under the door (tattoo removal; complements of my ex-girlfriend, who left a pile in front of my door the day she moved out) and left.

……….

Two months later a shrill scream woke me. I knew what it meant. I fished a business card from my wallet and reached for my keys.

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2015/06/11

The Untamed World of Nature

By dsholloway

She came back from her trip to the coast with tan legs and a long scar across her face. 

We drank cocktails at midday, avoiding the obvious topic: the scar on her face. “Thank you for not getting fat,” I said in all seriousness. “You’re welcome,” she replied. 

The scar told a violent story I only partially understood. I had never seen her drink more than two cocktails at a time. She finished her third–orange and pink, too much ice–and yanked her skirt down an inch. She must have caught me looking for tan lines. 

“I was attacked by a shark,” she said. She had been too far out. She waved off the Coast Guard when they tried to retrieve her. She swam further. Then the attack. 

“I think a bull shark attacked me,” she explained. I said nothing. 

She pulled a pen from her purse and began sketching on the back of our bill. 

“This is what a bull shark looks like.”

I examined the figure. “That’s my friend K,” I said. 

“Well he’s dead now. The Coast Guard killed him.” She stood, yanked her skirt down again and left. 

I grabbed my cellphone and punched his number in. 

Voicemail. 

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2015/06/05

Between His Acts and His Beliefs 

By dsholloway

She was gone, leaving only a photo of her chubby adolescent daughter wearing a Batman mask and her collection of gilded objects. A cherub, a horse head–“found objects” is what she called them even though she bought each one at the mall. 

Due to her interest in “DIY” there had been a permant cloud of spray paint in our apartment and empty cans of gold spray paint next to the trashcan. After she left I opened all the windows. 

I put the photo of her child on my desk and moved her “found objects” into a pile by the door. It started to rain. I closed the windows. That night I dreamed she cut my torso open and gilded my insides. 

I woke to a thick haze of spray paint. 

I opened the windows. Once the haze lifted I found that everything in my apartment had been gilded: chairs, desk, mirror, toothbrush. Her “found objects” were gone.

The venomous scent of spray paint assaulted me. I clutched my stomach and fell to the floor. 

“Don’t be such a jerk next time.”

I looked up. Her chubby daughter was standing above me, a disapproving look peeking from behind her Batman mask. 

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