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As you might imagine, what with her unseasonal moods resting on a razor, that morning’s spring sun, pealing through unbearable cherry blossom, stung her bitterly as any hide-snapped spile. Given the kinky turn of the pollen year, she stopped our parade, blinked behind dark glasses, rubbed at her face with a blue-gloved finger. I shuddered as the ribbon scalpel of tears disfigured her, gouged canyons in powdered cheeks. Her sternness drew a peppermint groan of uncertain sympathy.
Caught between private and public, that’s where love rests. She’d been starkly plain when she fetched me home. A broadcast of a body’s affection would never be welcome, and on a city pavement, unthinkable. There should be no clue for anyone unversed in twisted love, no witnesses to our miracle. Just a girl in heels with her goodboy on a leash. Our fuckwittery did not belong to others.
I can share this with you – you’ve been there – immersed in her, tasted her bitter dampness. You know how warped-rewarding she can be. Not everyone would understand dependency. How joyfully petticoat equilibrium spirals from great heights into dirt. You’re familiar with beautiful violence. One moment nothing but edging-clouds and swollen-sun cage, the next beaten on account of a misdemeanour, her crockery features volleying love into violent shards.
I’m not the jealous kind. I’m a goodboy. Obedient. It didn’t bother me she carried your picture from when you were beautiful. You’re nothing but a memorial wrapped in ribbon. I saw your photo once. She let you flutter from the balcony. You oscillated as she slapped my legs, used the ice-cream command, ‘Go fetch.’
She pulled me back. Made me limp down the fire escape to fetch you. I carried you in my mouth.
We live another day by almost dying. A whim decides if we fall. Not knowing is delicious.
That blossom-morning, my body shook-shambled, she cried imperceptibly. A guard outside one of those Greek façade banks glared, the residue of his disgust sticky on my skin. He’d never taste churning wrongness.
‘You’re no longer perfect,’ she sighed, bent down, knees fisting. I wanted to lick her creases. She pulled my ears, rested my nose on her tongue.
‘I want your photo,’ she said, my clot on her tooth. I rolled over, ready to meet you someplace over the balcony. Her smile is delicious crucifixion.
About tony osgood
Tony lives a skipped-stone's throw from Margate, England. He spends his time with little to show for it. He's has two non-fiction books published, several poems, and a dozen short stories.