SmokeLong Quarterly

It was not a separation. Not what you’d call a conventional marriage to begin with. More like I was alone experiencing an emotion and then I was alone experiencing a different emotion. And everyday the pool guy came. And I ordered the pool guy to drink with me. I said sit with me. I said if I lose the house I’ll come back for you. Bruce can’t take the pool and the pool guy too. He said I am sorry about the separation. He said a tampon has clogged the filter. He said I’d better clean the pool. I held his wrist. I said sit. It was not a separation. Not a wound. My mouth is the wound. I wish you’d stuff yourself in my mouth. I said I wish you’d shut me up. He pulled his wrist free with such force he fell backward. I said I want you to leave, Thomas. Leave and don’t come back here. He stood up. I said sit. You look thirsty. Tom, may I offer you something? I took off my top.

It was not a conventional marriage, I said at the hotel bar to no one in particular. He works all day and I sunbathe.

Thomas, I said, do you find this distasteful? Is it not to your liking? I was touching his thigh. His hands were neatly folded in his lap. Because I do not have a body, I want yours. That’s what this is about, Tom, you grass fed dildo. Fucking. He raised his glass to his lips. He gazed at the pool. He swallowed. You do, he said, have a body.

It isn’t a separation. It’s an expression. At the hotel bar I tell them, your guess is as good as mine. How is Bruce? I say Bruce is fine. That woman is garbage, he told them. He did not create my emotions. He created an occasion. I say, “separated,” mascara rolling down my face.

Do you like it? He said like what. I said my body, Thomas. Touch it. He did not budge. It’s not a body. I said it’s a crack in a house where the TV plays all day. Do you know the problem with the TV, Tom? It’s the problem with me. I am deeply empathic, Tom. Did you guess it? A medium. Words and gestures move through me. I haven’t the slightest idea what they mean.