teri – you never cooked a meal for yourself in your life, and besides, you always eat alone. you tell angelina jolie she wouldn’t make a good bond girl. you are ignorant in all matters subtle and african. you dye your hair. you are a desperate housewife. you are mean to your mother. you ―write‖ a whole book about it. you slurp your fettuccini, you talk too loudly on the phone, you drink too much red wine, you complain all the time, you get botox done, you can’t even heat up leftovers without worrying about your nails. you always look at me like that. and I like it. you don’t do shame and your name, Hatcher, is william tell’s arrow. but the apple’s in your hand, baby, my ball will forever be in your court. 7 or are you just scared you’ll ruin the pot roast? that this or that line will turn out wrong? that when you try to tell me how you really feel it will come out hackneyed and typical?
time stops when you stare me down and your thighs, like two ripe pears, mesmerize uncloaked by an apron. let’s get baked, teri. let’s rip into joan rivers and pierce brosnan and cameron diaz and how bad they all look in high def, ream on britney’s two-pack a day habit (while lightly sucking bitch sticks). I’ll wear the most expensive lingerie anyone ever gave you and you can take a little dig at me for not being able to fit into your high heels. we’ll roll in mounds of tabloids, laughing ourselves silly, I will caress you with cold pages. we will use scissors, clip pictures of old enemies and I will tell you how each one is puffy where you are plump, bony where you are elegant, craggy where you are dignified, bloated where you are mature, disaster where you are example, girl where you are woman – but teri, did you really become one? 8 Dame Judi Dench, You are wandering down a hallway Past boom and cameras, Halogen lights. Signature of chair. You nod. You tender your touches. Sad-eyed technician of the theatre. Eyes the colour of a Montreal Window reflecting Soft arc of clouds.
teri – I know you’re bad tv, chips and soda and a ten-litre styrofoam tub of chow mein, but I want to chow down on you. you’re my main squeeze. I’ll juice you till the cows come home, make you banana cream pie, trouser jelly, pigs in a blanket, the works. I’ll make you anything you want.
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