The Unsavory Shit
I wouldn’t necessarily say that I picture an octopus when we have sex, but I don’t not picture one. Octopi have three hearts, just like I do. Think safes full of getaway money. Think fake passports using multisyllabic, Eastern European names. Think coffins full of reasons to self-destruct. I have two spare hearts in which to store the unsavory shit. Octopi also lack bones. A fifty-pound octopus can squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter. Talk about adaptability. I adapt too, but far more slowly. When Crumb leaves for work, I spend half the day learning to exist without him. I spill coffee, light books on fire, open the neighbor’s Amazon packages. Those sorts of things. By the time my blood has cooled, it’s almost time for him to come home. Then it takes the better part of the evening to relearn his presence. I step on his feet, throw the hissing cat at him, slip acid in his Dr. Pepper. He spends hours staring into the cat’s litter box, like he can’t decide if he’s better off in there. Tonight Crumb grabs the plunger. Tells me it has magical powers. Like what? I ask. He raises his eyebrows, does a little wiggle. It can transport you anywhere, he smiles as if he invented teeth. Typically, I wake up several times throughout the night to check that he’s still lying next to me. In the dark I reach for his body then make my way down to his butt. Crumb has an excellent butt. Very muscular, squeezable. I rub it like a magic lamp and wish that he never finds out what I’m hiding.
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