by T.L. Sherwood
Haphazard, left, right, in circles I’m scrubbing, rinsing, flinging dinner dishes. I’m beyond upset. So what? Now, after six months where we—OK where I—jumped into this whole lesbian mess, now you confess.Tell me you think you’re hetero after all. Again.
I wish there were more wine. I fill the last bottle full of water, shake it rotundly, pour it out. Oily halos from the Chicken Marsala bob and curtsy on the skin of water in the sink’s basin. When I roll my eyes back up into my head, the last sovereign place left in this apartment, I notice a moth flattering itself against the window pane. Another, on the other side of the glass winks, proceeds to walk away. I swallow a mouthful of warm rinse water, shove the wine glass back down into the remnants of our last kiss. I grab it and it comes up too quickly, smacks against the tap, shatters instantly.
Holding the jagged stem, placid classic Todd Rundgren seeps into my brain with his insipid version of “Can We Still Be Friends” until Bonnie Raitt cuts him down with her listeria ridden lyrics in a swanky rendition of “Let’s Give ’em Something to Talk About.” I emulate a Zen apprentice by counting to ten. Breathe in. Breathe out. Open eyes, see a flipping–no joke–a turkey. A turkey struts by, just beyond our joke of a patio; it’s close enough to catch. She’s so far and away from what I thought was pure or real or innocent yet she’s what needs to be sacrificed. So, so slowly, I ease open the door on its tracks and gentle step toward my quarry. I will subdue it, promise I’ll be true to it, lead it away from its Tom and have my way with it, grant it a merciful death, pluck off all its feathers. Let it bleed. Let it all come clean. Serve it next week when you come back to me. Again. We’ll just pretend it’s Thanksgiving. Maybe I’ll even get you to sing.