There is nail polish, a curling iron, this lycra-looking bandage intended to enhance waistlines, an egg dye kit, an IUD, anal beads I bought in Brooklyn, a vase filled with gladiolas. There is a grocery list on the fridge with his favorite beer at the top. There is a mold surgical uplift for sagging breasts. There is a winning smile and white-as-wedding-dress teeth. There is a special shade of red lipstick that makes the white brighter.
There is a technique for improving his orgasm which involves sustained digital contact with eine kleine chode. There is a giggle I’ve got down pat and a cluster-bomb of sports stats committed to memory. There is the special 900-kilowatt mascara that windows my eyes a little more when he looks like he’s craving innocent. There is a gym membership that keeps my butt doggy-style ready. There is a cat I pet when the man appears bored. There is the fact that he’s perpetually bored and needs to be watching something. There is a sill-side sorrow snapped shut. There is a valiant zipper on a change purse. There are so many ways to keep a man but not one that doesn’t require self-mutilation. All this keeping is surgical at heart.
The last time I thought about this was in a park where I was holding his favorite green kite, and I was flying that kite for him so he could chug a beer on the blanket when suddenly, an elder-folk jogged past in night-glo spandex and I wondered what would happen if I let it go just like that. I didn’t wonder what he would do , see? I wondered what would happen.