Tag Archives: book

Philosophical Acumen

I must have fallen asleep, for I don’t know how long – at some point she had lit her favorite candle (shaped like a man’s bashed in skull), so I had probably slept a while. She was as I remembered: arms hugging her legs, book in her hands. The flame of her favorite candle looked like a man trying to shake off his own immolation. He writhed, casting her profile in varying depths of black.

She smiled. “Someone was tired.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I guess.”

The house was shadowy and cool.

“It’s snowing,” she said, eyes returned to her book.

I looked behind me. “Jesus,” I said, transfixed by the vast white on the other side of the window. “How long was I asleep?”

She shrugged. “A few days. It hasn’t been snowing this whole time, though. Just since yesterday.”

Yesterday?

I swung my legs off of the couch and stared at her. She caught my gaze, momentarily, before the shadow cast by her favorite candle swelled again.

“What,” she said from somewhere in the shadow. “I wanted to finish my book. But your friend K came over instead.”

The shadow receded from her face and she was still smiling.


Materialist Fantasies

“What are you reading,” I inquired in my best disinterested voice.

 

Silently, she held her book to her face to reveal its title: An Exegesis on Repressed Masculinity.

 

I suppressed an eye roll. “Is it interesting?”

 

“Interesting enough,” she shrugged. “It’s probably the story of your life: sex and anguish, sex and decay, sex and self.”

 

“That sums it up.”

 

She smiled.

 

“May I?” I extended a hand across the bar top.

 

My name, in elegant font, was printed along the book’s spine. And my photo – an old one, taken with my now dead dog – was on the back.

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

“That guy over there. He’s the author. And” – she raised her ring finger – “my husband.”

 

He kissed her on the cheek and drank the rest of her martini. “Ready,” he asked in my voice.

 

She nodded, and then addressed me: “Keep it. I’ve read it eighteen times.” She had written her number on the first page.

 

We had sex two days later.

 

“I hope you don’t mind,” she breathed heavily afterward, “but my husband would like to join us now. Come on out, K.”

 

I watched in terror as I stepped out of her bedroom closet.


The Victim and the [Reluctant] Executioner

“Here, give this woman a call. She seems to have your”–she paused–“aesthetic sensibilities.”

Spinning her interior design book toward me, she pointed at a woman cradling a bronzed human skull the way you might show off your newborn. Below the photo, a caption:

I just like body parts. I use them all the time. People ask why. I don’t know why. I just like body parts. 

I looked her up and sent an email detailing my own fondness for body parts: disembodied limbs, torsos of in-shape women, etc. I moved into a new apartment, my email continued, and would she be available for consultation?

……….

The woman had on the same brand of perfume my girlfriend wears, which I found off-putting. She padded across the floor (I have a no shoes rule) and my girlfriend’s scent followed, like a pet.

“I can do a lot with this space,” she said to my ceiling. “In fact,” she turned toward me, “I brought you a housewarming gift.” She pulled a lacquered head from her oversized shoulder bag. She held it toward me, gripping it by its long, brown hair.

“Is it real,” I asked?

She smiled and the scent of perfume overtook me.