“I haven’t seen you in five months.”
A swish of a tentacle, a tug at the collar.
“But were you even looking?”
Eyes to the side, up to the water’s rippling skin, back to the side again.
“Where did you go?”
A tentacular twirl of marigenous wrack.
“To my mother’s.”
A memory of a lavender-shingled cove near an acreage of coral.
“Are you still angry about that night?”
A pregnant pause sagging under the weight of a sextet of awkward moments.
“You know I didn’t want to go there with you.”
A brain being racked for piteous excuses.
“It’s not rape if you yell ‘surprise!'”
The sound of a pin plunking to the ocean floor.
“I didn’t yell ‘surprise!'”
And when he buoyed there, silently entombed in his guilt, she continued, “And neither did you.”
An indignant scoff, swaddled in algal phlegm, bubbled from his throat’s depths.
“Yes, I did. I totally yelled ‘surprise!’ right after I stuck my finger in your—“
A horrified interruption by her.
“No! No, you didn’t. You thanked me for being a double-D and then you left me in the trunk of that sunken Fiat.”
“Oh. Well anyway, it was great to see you.”
A NOTE: I was telling Henry about this one yesterday.
“And it’s kind of like ocean creatures of sorts, so maybe it will have a more mainstream appeal.” Henry agreed with this, and I continued. ” Except the story that goes with it is about rape.”
And Henry threw up his arms in exasperation. “That’s where you lose people, with your stupid stories.”
And he’s probably right, but I can’t help myself. It’s like a sickness and the art just feels naked without the words. But for the record, people can opt out of my “stupid” stories upon request. I’ll only cry for a few hours, then I’ll smack myself in the face with an iron dustpan and move on.