[Pure Fiction home]
I root through the heap of blankets, find my checkered boxer shorts, and slip them on. The waistband stops where my gigantic gut hovers over the elastic like a suspended pink avalanche. I then climb into the tattered red union suit I’ve recently pulled out of a garbage bag of old clothes and button it up.
I situate myself in the space next to her and soon we look like the sort of proper couple that would own this gloriously expensive condo in Streeterville. Sarah, my girlfriend, is away on a business trip at the moment, paying for it. I light a cigarette and Taylor places the ashtray between us. I’m not even supposed to be smoking in here. Sarah would definitely be pissed.
“From what I remember, he envisioned all humans as sorta being pinched by God, like by the collars of our shirts. We’re all pedaling our legs and flailing our arms in midair, about to be sent down into destruction. Hell and damnation, that sort of thing. Well, if the old fart was right, I think we’re there. Our feet have lost their grip.”
“Now you’re being an ass.”
“When you finally leave her.”
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She likes when I speak prophetically and flops on the bed to kiss my jiggly belly. Then she slides up and rests her head on my chest so the smell of her shampoo is in my nostrils. I’m inhaling deeply and I’m stiff again. I run my hand through her hair. This calms her. This makes her like me. This flash of tenderness will pass, though. They all do.
