paint me
let the numbers talk...who am I? | short fiction
10,085
Days in the closet. You: when are you going to do it?
100
°F and the aquarium’s on fire. I’ve fainted in Plaça Redona: it’s probably cause of the smoke…no good! You slump me in a preschool-sized chair on a loud terraza. Señor! You spoon-feed icy gazpacho—Señor!—red ripples down my chin; smoke plumes in the south. Señor! Paella! Heavy on the rabbit!—I smell like tiger nuts and B.O.—Pour-FA-vor!
3
The number of car wrecks it took to put your ma away; also…
3
The number of cocks in the Tezhi Sanbian Jiu you sipped that one time in Chinatown: deer, seal, dog—mother, mother, mother, remember? Being stern with the snakes in the creek bed? Deer, seal, dog…father, son, ghost…I heard through the grapevine; I set a reminder on my phone: “SEND FLOWERS!”—deer, seal, dog…earth, wind, fire…did I?
22
Kilmarnock. Apt. D. Your ma thinks we’re moving too fast. Remember how her cat disappeared the day you moved out? How she wept and left milk saucers on the porch? How they went sunrancid and fogged up her windows?
29
The age of Buddha when he renounced everything and went out for milk.
2
The number of breaths Rāhula swallowed when Daddy left; also…
2
The number of bodies in our bed when you’re in detox. Body#1: “I love your bed!” Thanks. Body#2: “I love your decorations!” Thanks.
1934
Written under the right hoof of the deer tattooed on your heart. I lay on your accordion belly thinking of middle school—how I’d stand in the sunrise, waiting for the bus, watching mama deer lead her fawns through Mr. K’s yard. I’d inch closer and closer, shooting them stink eyes, hoping she’d bludgeon my face to a pulp before the bus could. You’d run fingers through my hair and sing remember the night the dog had her pups in the pantry? also…
1934
The British gynecologist snaps Nessie’s portrait. You like things like her. You believe in things, even when the beast turns out to be a toy submarine.
327
We’re “soulmates” because your birthday, 3/27, penetrates my phone number: xxx-327-xxxx.
7
Daddy tucks me goodnight, bulldozing my Adam’s apple with the duvet’s lip. He stoops to peck my third eye with tequila worm lips. The blanket relents. He’s upright and tousling my hair, whispering: “Don’t you ever kiss another man besides me or your uncle.” Now silence. Now the white noise of attaboy’d hair. “Got it?” I nod…
0
the number of men other than Dad and Uncle G I can kiss—zilch—nada—zip—nil—goose egg—“oh” as in “oh, shit…after all this time…”; also…
0
in tennis: “love.”
10,585
Days in the closet: Don’t you want me in your life? Me:…
10
:32pm. I’m chomping a spring roll on the couch. You turn, owl-eyed: I took too much Valium. I swallow. The police are coming. Blue and red pound the walls. Now, we’re barefoot by the mailboxes on a cold bench. A stinkbug skulks towards the boot of the medic dilating your pupils. There’s basil in my K9, and your leg’s doing that thing I hate. We hug before they close the ambulette. If there was sun, you could see the maples have jaundiced; also…
10
Days in detox: they make us do group and drink chalky coffee…I think my roommate killed someone but the food’s alright, how are you?
0
a type of freedom.
1
a type of prison; also…
1
Let’s honeymoon in Greenland…I hear it tastes like gorgonzola! You’re talking about Kiviak—500 little auks fermented in a disemboweled seal—and how you’ve always wanted to try it. Your brain is a seal carcass stuffed with our auks, one for every day of us. When your tummy hurts, and you crave me, slice open your grey matter and fill your fist. Clamp your teeth on their cute necks, and Saturn twist to unscrew their heads. Spit out the skulls like sunflower shells and throwback, suck down those festering juices. That funk in your sinuses? That’s the time we ate too many meatballs at Paul Revere’s house. That water in your eye? That’s the dry ham your ma made at Easter. Tell me: how do I taste? How many auks have you got left in there? How long until I’m gone?
10,586
…no.
If this is indicative of the different things you'll be trying this year, I'm slavering. NOBODY swings a literary sledgehammer like you, my friend. All I can say is: let 'er rip. Bring the fucking house down this year.
this is stunning, will. such an economy of words to paint such a daring picture. also... i thought i was the only person obsessed with kiviak, so thank you for releasing me from my prison.