The Nose

by Birch Taylor

I started drinking coffee shortly after my wife left me for a man with no nose. I thought of it as a victory, drinking something that I could smell. I smirked as I inhaled the aroma each morning. I hated coffee, but it was only a ten-second chug to becoming the better man.

If you think that describing my wife’s boyfriend as having “no nose” is some poorly crafted device to say that he is senseless, you’re wrong. He  was physically born without a nose. Some birth defect. His pregnant mother must have sprinkled paint chips on her corn flakes or chose a water birth in a tub of moonshine. Either way, something got messed up. The doctors made two holes and a small hump above his mouth so that he could breathe. He looked ridiculous.

My post-martial life consisted of gelling my hair to watch American Idol with my niece while, I assume, a flat faced, high-pitched freak dry humped my wife on the same couch where my son played with his LEGOs.  I lied awake at night imagining how those holes whistled when he made love to my wife. I shook, quivering from a shattered ego and a lurking sense of inadequacy.

My son had a soccer game last week and my no-nosed nemesis chose the seat next to mine on the bleachers. I watched intuitively as his banana-shaped, stupid face tried to grasp the game. He asked me why our son plays soccer. I told him that my son plays soccer because he likes it and then he asked me what was wrong with wrestling. I said that you could break your nose wrestling.

It wasn’t long before my wife showed up and greeted her extra-terrestrial lover with a lengthy kiss. She sighed as if his mere presence was a gift. At least I had my coffee.

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Birch Taylor sweet talks women and chews Red Man Tobacco in Philadelphia, PA.
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