The Salon, Vol. I, No. 2

happens when you open your teeth so don‘t open your teeth, we‘ve figured this out, if you open your teeth, it‘s over.

They‘ll find her in a car with her mouth open, not for five more years, but that‘s where they‘ll find her, we won‘t know who she is at first and then we‘ll recognize him, poor Arthur, in his garage, he will be wearing a plastic beaded necklace which does not spell the name of any girl we know and we know everyone, his made-up name, the church will smell like exhaust.

He kissed me, my uncle, holding me down like that, for fully thirty seconds, I know, because he took five deep breaths while moving his tongue around on my teeth and pulling my ribs up toward him so my back arched like a woman‘s. He didn‘t smell so good anymore. His nose smelled like a fresh-cleaned sore, like acetone, like bad lettuce. It was so long, forty seconds, maybe longer, he was moving and I could feel carrot stalks breaking beneath us, I had time to imagine him and a woman somewhere half-lit, kissing to a famous song, I had time to imagine what it would feel like, being that woman, I opened my teeth a little, then clamped them shut again, I felt him smile into my mouth. I had time to open my eyes and see the sky, a shape in the clouds, so long I thought of three things that shape could be—a lizard, a lily, a half-eaten sandwich—and I saw Uncle Arthur‘s eyes were closed, and only then did I realize I‘d hit my head on the bathtub, it hurt, I was glad, that was why I was crying, I always liked Uncle Arthur and I hoped this wouldn‘t change anything. He put his whole mouth over mine and blew and blew until I had to open my teeth, he breathed down my throat and drew the breath back out of me, passionate as a vacuum cleaner.

And when he was through kissing me, Uncle Arthur put his mouth on my earlobe, thumbed it with his tongue, and said, 41 The Salon