On Punching a Gift Horse in the Mouth
On shitting on opportunities
While she knocks-
A most rude fellow appears inside the doorway with a silly hat, a red clown nose and eyes crying bile. From beyond his open bathrobe appears a visitor.
“Rather poor taste for you to arrive in your skivvies”
she utters unamused by his only too blatant erection.
“I’ve only just slipped into something less comfortable- I thought you’d be lying down” the misogynist in him replies.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, goodbye my love” musing on the mouth that had made her once whole takes from him the kind of look the devil makes when counting his fool’s gold.
“I think you’ve forgotten something,” he spat at her and licked it off her face.
“My! You’re rather cunning tonight dear,” wiping the odorous slobber from her cheek, her brow “truly in top form- do you kiss your mother with that mouth- or our daughters?”
The game was on now-
neither afraid of Virginia Wolfe- mostly from a complete ignorance of any literature of the 19th century, before or after, the author couldn’t tell, they had been altogether removed of their decencies and descended down a steep slope of self loathing but they threw in their chips all the same, each a bit more daring than the one that came before and no one knew better.
For example, neither could clearly tell if the bet was still on, for realsies, as they say, neither could be sure of anything anymore- most certainly the other’s intentions- but what of the winnings?
Were there winnings to be won? If so where were they? What creeping catacomb of the mind could unlock this hidden data, this gem of information that each so desperately clawed at the other for.
Then again were these the kind of winnings one would want to win. If the winnings could be won for that matter seemed rather plain to Jane, the octogenarian who lived next door.
Sitting on the floor contemplating her porcelain cat collection, a cat lady of sorts perhaps, she was allergic but loved them all the same.
A shout had awakened her quiet contemplation of her porcelain enclustered home and she crawled her way to the window sill careful nary to touch a single kitten standing in pose upon the floor and each corner of the window sill. She could not think on whether to hide herself eyes just gently perched in view to scan the events outside, or to climb up wholeheartedly and perch herself on what little remained of the window sill- the cats had taken it (like everything in her home) hostage. She opted to perch on the window sill, she had found she was in a perching mood and found the sill more perchy, if perchable. Her aged bones clung to each corner and in the moment she found herself rested in the square of the window, knees to head, she was not an altogether smallish woman, though she had a fondness for fitting into tight spaces- a wombic feeling she had carried with her since the inception of what would later be called herself. It was a feeling she found she could not rid herself of. Later she would fall to the floor after ever so slightly knocking a kitty off the sill, in reaching for it her grasp would extend outside of the center her of gravity on the precarious 1×4 ornate window sill molding and this shift would lead to her untimely doom-
Not death of course, that came after, but rather she would fall unto the hundreds of porcelain cats upon the floor and the momentum of her fall would send her sideways- arm first still grasping for the fallen kitten which would land awkwardly upon seven separate kittens which would tumble to either side and crack. Next her shoulder would protrude into the very heart of the hardwood floors, walloping a floorboard where mystery would find her as a hollow sound would evaporate from it’s dusty shelter. She knew of hollow sounds when having to find the empty spaces between walls. That was before she was allergic. At first she’d find her kitties caught between the walls and would excavate the empty places to save them. In time however, and as her allergies came upon her all the more reproachfully, she began entombing her kittens within those very same empty spaces and subsequently became a wonderful spackler. Most skillful with a putty knife she would profess to her hypoallergenic dolls, threatening any with bad behavior that there was one particular corridor that had yet to be truly utilized.
Anyhow, she has not fallen yet. She is watching the two in the doorway sputtering over their divorce or marriage or whichever seems to be more appealing to her eyes- to her imagination. You see, she did not know them, nor did they know her, in fact any of them knew no one, Jane was largely agoraphobic and the couple were repeatedly too deeply entrenched in their own doings and goings on that they had hardly noticed that they happened to live in the middle of what had once been white suburbia amidst it’s own bubble, but now was a rather diverse thriving community of largely hispanic and North Koreans graphic designers and carpenters. None bothered either party. And the reasons were all too clear to all.
In the heat of a particular moment eyes raised and hands wide the man gesticulated rather crudely- Jane’s own desires, long dead, now awakened suddenly and pervertedly she thought in her mind space. Dirty and ungodly but desires all the same. It was the kind of thing that kept one close to God- because you knew the Devil. And like a high school girl she’d be Prom Queen splayed out on a vibrating motel queen sized mattress just by association.
In that same moment a number of things came to pass. First a lawnmower turned on down the street, noisy but distant it seemed odd for this late in October, mostly chewing up and bagging leaves one must wonder. Second Jane had successfully managed to surreptitiously fondle her breast and had moved her window side hand down to her lonely privates when the available space proved unworthy of such feats she unfortunately bumped that same pussy from the sill and went crashing down to the floor with a bloody crash as she tore through numerous idols. Third in that same moment the man realized by way of an air twixt his legs that the hardness of his stance had grown flacid as though shrunken from a man to a child. His former confidence now left of him remained altogether absent for the remaining days of his life. Nothing like cancer of the manhood to kick a man down when he thinks himself up.
It was a resoluteness of spirit that never followed well into the light of day for these two, like a vampire it had leeched the two until all that opted to stay was a pallid shade of romance that clung to their teeth as much as to their appetites.
“I’ve written this in the sands of time and all you want is an hourglass” she pours down into the shrinking him and neither folds but the bluff of both maintains a subtle presence in the forefront of either mind.
Meanwhile Jane is dying over a hollow floorboard.