Under The Wagon

Dear Sirs,

I see that you received my previous correspondence. And I appreciate the promptness of your reply.

It was quite the delightful first date…A perfect day at the zoo, followed by buffalo wings and conversation at a quaint neighborhood pub. The specimen you sent me was satisfactory in every way. Excellent condition - physically, mentally, and (seemingly) emotionally. There were no awkward pauses during the scintillating discussions of independent film, music, career ambition and travel. And I must say you really did your research this time! It couldn’t have been easy to find another left-handed 27 year old who’s previously worked as both a zoo keeper and a party promoter, who just moved out of the same city my brother currently lives in, and who can pick up things with his feet (just like me!). We certainly had a lot in common to talk about. Start to finish, I had a wonderful time with the subject you provided.

So what’s the catch?

Huh? What’s wrong with him? Is he still carrying a torch for a lost love (who may or may not show up at any moment)? He’s a writer, was he researching some story about awful blind dates? Was this actually even a date? Maybe he just thought it was two people hanging out. Did you send me another gay one? Did you, you bastards? Is he gonna take that job he was talking about in Washington…It starts in a MONTH, you know…A fucking month!

Or…Cruelest of all…Are you letting me get all excited about a single perfect day at the zoo (with buffalo wings to follow), just to find out that this guy isn’t into me at all?

Is he?

Jesus christ, you guys suck.

This isn’t over, fuckers.
K-

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Gotta hold it in, gotta hold it in!

The thought races through my head as the man sitting shyly on the edge of my bed begins to speak.

“Hey, that was fun. You know, I normally don’t do things like this.” I nod absently at him, still rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor, looking for his t-shirt.

“Yeah, well… first time for everything, I guess,” I reply. Gotta hold it in, just a little bit longer…
“Well, maybe I’ll call you some time?”

I hand him his shoes (one under the bed, the other inexplicably resting on top of the dresser).

“Sure, why not.” I smile tightly. Would you get OUT of here already…Can’t hold it in!“Okay. Well. See ya’ around.” I nod again, gently herding Jim (Or possibly Alex) out the door. As I slam the deadbolt behind him, I lean against the door with a sigh of relief.

“BRRROOOOOTTTT.”

Thank God. I totally had to cut one.
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YOU DICKS! I HATE YOU YOU FUCKING DICKS I KILL YOU!

(Note: The above was scrawled in a brownish substance at first believed to be blood. Upon later analysis, it was revealed to be pudding.)

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I like being naked

The tiny mesa of my belly swoops swiftly down, then up
like a swallow
To a jutting hipbone, hovers a moment
Before gliding down the narrow juncture of my thigh
Heavy handful of breast, sharp-dusk-nipple
hard against my palm
If I stand just straight enough, I love my lower back
Violin curving into the swell of my hips and buttocks

A hundred dark freckles map my skin
“mole” is an ugly word…Say freckles
Scattered constellations and connect-the-dot puzzles
A trio teeters in a precarious triangle on my collarbone
Two against the underside of my arm where the skin is soft
My favorite hides an inch below my left breast
If I push hard against it I can feel the springy vibrations of my ribcage
Cartilage straining fragile
And I’m reminded of the boy I loved whose chest was a valley
birdlike birdcage delicate
I’d lay my head between the hills of his breastbone and think
even though he’s so much bigger than me
If I reach out just one hand
I could crush him

My peaks and slopes
Flesh alternating salt and silk
The dips and nooks and hidden surprises of my body
I like being naked

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Note: The Management has been advised to include a disclaimer about the risks of drinking any alcoholic beverages (much less these ones). We’re supposed to inform you that alcohol may cause liver disease, impair your ability to operate motor vehicles, and lead to birth defects. But frankly, we don’t care about your health, you’re already a bad driver, and we’re pretty sure your children would be ugly. In all honesty, we loathe you. So please enjoy:

Cocktails for the New Millennium: The Next Millennium, not this one.
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“I appreciate that I’m not the type of girl you would think to bring flowers to. And I understand that roses are boring, and tulips pedantic.”

“But CARNATIONS???”

(Entry in the Three Sentence Story Contest)

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