Mar 29, 2007


It was raining outside, and the one thing I always do on rainy days off is play Toto's "(I Guess the Rain is Down in) Africa." She was out on the porch watching it, I guess. Or maybe in the kitchen making sandwhiches, but I imagined her in a white t-shirt staring straight down into a puddle murky with run-off from the trash cans I forgot to take out to the curb. I imagined her sucked straight to hell.

I imagine I shouldn't do that, but I also can't care anymore. The only thing I consider worthwhile with this woman is sex which is a boring enterprise in the long run. I like thinking about it more than actually doing it, buecuase there are no holds barred. Like my woman being sucked to hell, the imagination can be a wonderful sexual place where balls can be licked on non-birthdays and fingers can find unbelievable orifices-0- faces can commingle and partners can change hair colors for no particular reason.

The doorbell rang, my tacos arrived and I rose to get them. Instead of the kindly Mexican man, she stood with the tacos in hand gesturing for me to eat on the porch with her-- to share in her drudgery and hand me the comeuppance I had deserved since she thought I had cheated on her and I used it as an excuse to wriggle out of the relationship though not guilty. I had no choice in the matter. She had the power, the look of consternation-- like a professor awaiting a hand to rise in a crowd of tired students-- and my glorious carne asada tacos swaying ever so slightly beside her. Her hair color would not change, my balls would remain dry, but in a weeks time neither of us would ever have the same day off ruined by each other ever again.

I grabbed my coat and opened the screen door. She began talking and the exact puddle I imagined her staring into seemed to levitate above itself and swirl around us-- entrapping us in moistness most unpleasant like a wet bathing suit on a leather car seat on the way home from the beach. I unwrapped my taco and she sat silently for a minute knowing I hated it when she watched me eat. Eating is the least sexy thing aside from crying (not like tears of joy or light sadness, but sobbing-- just hideous uncontrolled sobs are the least sexy thing in the world).

When I was finished, so was the rain for the evening, and later I got hideously drunk, stood over her side of the bed and smiled. I masturbated on the couch to soft core porn, ate the leftover taco in the fridge, and fell asleep to Springsteen records while sports news played on mute. As I passed out, I remembered the final words she said to me before I left for the bar.

"You're a dissappointment."

"I will leave it at that, I suppose," I said. My hands shook then and as I fell asleep, but my clenched fist was no more than a baby's angry motion when first being born-- a useless cry to nothing that was as unmemorable as the rainstorm, the tacos I ate and this whole fucking story.

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