When Keeping It Real Means Keeping It Painful

The Dandy Warhols – Wasp In The Lotus

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I saw you with him, Robi. There were hands everywhere. Clothes speckled with blood. The sound of gnashing teeth. Your legs, Robi, everywhere. But you didn’t have to kill him.

I ran to the store that morning. Ordered a pound of ground turkey like you’d asked. Bought a new spatula just in case the old one couldn’t take it. And an apron. Just in case I couldn’t.

Work was dull. Fifteen trips to the restroom, four legitimate. Spilled hot coffee on my desk. And lap. It burned, but no worse than usual. I spent the rest of the day wondering whether you’d notice the pinkness of my thigh. Would you grab the ice? You know I hate ice.
You’d probably grab ice.

I drank on the drive home. One, two, twelve swigs of whiskey spat out immediately. My shirt was drenched in it. A neighboring car at a red light rolled its window up, such was the smell. All for you, Robi; it was all for you. You hate to drink, but you love the taste, and that’s fine by me. I can play along. I can come home with my shirt drenched in whiskey. I can hope you’ll grab the matches on the bedside table before we’ve eaten dinner and the dishes are washed.

My key stuck when I tried to open the front door. Maybe I’d used the wrong key? No, of course not; you’d changed the locks. I’d have to sneak in through our window all pink-thighed and covered in liquor. Up the oak; through the chains; over the masks on the floor beneath the nylon rope — it wouldn’t be the first time.

It better not have been the last.

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