1. MONDAY (worked)

Her hair was shorter than usual, a dark red skullcap, and her body, verging on anorexia, was a delight of wiry strength.

This was the first time in months that everything had worked out all right. We’d broken up in January. This was late April. I fucked her and she with the skill of sincerity was trying only faintly not to be fucked, just enough to remind me that all is an act, that even in love and hatred we are consensual heroes and villains, the roles that even in their darkest moments give us a sense of belonging. She was the prisoner, realizing her true self in shame, and I was the emptiness screaming out with all its potential at the limitless possibilities of silence.

This basic lack of sympathy expressed in its complicated ensuing attitudes was exactly what our relationship needed. I realized this then, David Letterman horse-laughing on the television set: Kris can only appreciate a man who does not care about her. And in sympathy, I realized I didn’t. I wanted Anna now, and the horror of that relationship was enough to blanch the few problems with Kris I had left.

Kris is the sort of woman who can sleep with your best friend and lie to you with a clear conscience. Anna is the type to sleep with your best friend, confess in a tearful heap on the floor begging your forgiveness, then run off with him the next day, stranding him in Vegas after convincing herself on the drive up that she really does love you after all. Anna is a whirlpool.

While Kris is a unicorn of sorts. She grew up with the rainbow sheet set, the photos of her horse tucked in the rim of her dresser mirror. She has the jagged ox-bow face of a female jockey and the hard body of an archeologist three years out in the field. All this I say in terms of dearest compliment. Kris was tired and lying on her stomach and the television coiled us both down to sleep with its soft incantations of inanity. We were muttering out our last things, still warm from the movement...

1. MONDAY (worked)

Her hair was shorter than usual, a dark red skullcap, and her body, verging on anorexia, was a delight of wiry strength.

This was the first time in months that everything had worked out all right. We’d broken up in January. This was late April. I fucked her and she with the skill of sincerity was trying only faintly not to be fucked, just enough to remind me that all is an act, that even in love and hatred we are consensual heroes and villains, the roles that even in their darkest moments give us a sense of belonging. She was the prisoner, realizing her true self in shame, and I was the emptiness screaming out with all its potential at the limitless possibilities of silence.

This basic lack of sympathy expressed in its complicated ensuing attitudes was exactly what our relationship needed. I realized this then, David Letterman horse-laughing on the television set: Kris can only appreciate a man who does not care about her. And in sympathy, I realized I didn’t. I wanted Anna now, and the horror of that relationship was enough to blanch the few problems with Kris I had left.

Kris is the sort of woman who can sleep with your best friend and lie to you with a clear conscience. Anna is the type to sleep with your best friend, confess in a tearful heap on the floor begging your forgiveness, then run off with him the next day, stranding him in Vegas after convincing herself on the drive up that she really does love you after all. Anna is a whirlpool.

While Kris is a unicorn of sorts. She grew up with the rainbow sheet set, the photos of her horse tucked in the rim of her dresser mirror. She has the jagged ox-bow face of a female jockey and the hard body of an archeologist three years out in the field. All this I say in terms of dearest compliment. Kris was tired and lying on her stomach and the television coiled us both down to sleep with its soft incantations of inanity. We were muttering out our last things, still warm from the movement and not yet embarrassed by the formalities required of an old lover’s recidivism. Her body began its first round of twitches as the machinery closed up shop, her limbs falling dead one by one.

“Bullshit, Oliver,” she said. “I saw it. It was a dildo.”

“Excuse me?” She didn’t answer so I said it again. “Excuse me?”

“It was... “ Kris stopped and shook her head. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yeah it’s me, Oliver. What’s this about a dildo?” I pulled her half-around to face me, half turned-on by the awkward position of her bony shoulders under my chin.

“I...” her voice squeaked, fighting off sleep. “It wasn’t anything. I was dreaming. Turn off the TV, Randy?”

“Not until you reveal to me this dildo business.” Her constant inevitable flirtations, as persistent as a bad cold, had drawled on through the nine months of our long dead relationship. They no longer bothered me. But I was curious, so I badgered her. Fingers help with this sort of thing; I poked her in the ribs.

“Did I say dildo? Ha!” She rolled back over: “I set the clock for seven.”

“Uh-uh. I’m not gonna let you say dildo to me, and then go running back off to Oliver-land.” I grabbed a nipple, ready to twist.

“Ha!” That’s exactly how she laughs, just like it’s spelled, a burst of air. “Listen to me—stop it! I saw a picture at the slide library today and there was a gold dildo in this man’s attic. Oliver didn’t believe me, so I was arguing with him... in my dream.”

“Your boss, the gay guy?”

“He felt he ought to stand up for men’s rights, or something , so he wouldn’t admit Jack Kane had a gold dildo in his living room.”

“The actor Jack Kane?”

“Oliver says he wasn’t gay. Oliver has the list of everyone in the entire world who’s gay, and this guy wasn’t on it.”

“That actor who was clubbed to death?”

“It was for tax purposes. The man’s ex-wife is the most self-pitying human being in the known universe. She left us eight shoe-boxes of worthless photographs. And I was given the wonderful task of cataloging it. That’s why I’m so tired.” Kris yawned for effect, bumping me with her head. “So turn David off would you; his laugh is like a cat dying.”

I sat up quietly for a moment while she wormed her way back under the sheets. Kris sighs constantly, so she did this a few times, ever softer. The vaguest scent floated up from her armpits, her hair was mashed flat like an old blanket. I watched her fondly.

“What’s it like?” I said, with a nudge.

“A dick.” She turned away.

“But it’s made of gold...? Or just gold-colored?”

I had to shake her again for an answer. Kris finally whirled back, in a sprawl of those angular red-freckled bones. “What do I know, Randy? I am not a dildo expert.”

“Not certified, no.”

“It was a polaroid of Jack Kane standing with some ‘actress’ in his rec room, and beside him on a shelf was a big gold dick... and, boy, did I get excited. I’m not sleeping with Oliver, okay?”

“No,” I said, “you can’t. He’s gay.”

“I could if I wanted.” She turned again with a grunt of finality, and quickly fell asleep.

Welcome to my world