There were signs to which she turned a blind eye. The droopy moustache that he called ironic. But it’s on your face, isn’t it? She’d asked. There’s nothing ironic about it. He’d sulked and stroked his whiskers. His muttonchops, also ironic, gave her another momentary pause, but so much simpler to close her eyes, and briefly wonder why hair was so easy for him and irony so difficult. Who was she to judge? Which was worse, wearing the ironic moustache, or sleeping with it?
When her face became oddly puffy and bagels made her gag, she peed on the stick and showed it to him. Don’t get me wrong, he said, I could get behind some loinproduct at some point. She watched his lip curl over his teeth as he talked, the whispy hairs above it twitching and settling. When he dropped his eyes, she kept looking at him.
And all she can think of while she lies back on the table is Humbert Humbert’s ode to Lolita: light of my life, fire of my loins. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. But it has been ruined now; she slips and trips over it again and again, fire of my loinproduct. Every time. And then it’s over.
Front page image by jonathan.youngblood.