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.

Alina was born in Romania and lives in Alabama with her partner and three vociferous mammals. Find her somewhere in the recent pages of Cloudbank, New South Journal, and potty-training journals.