chosen her to love.
He held his soft devotion like a penance –
drank alone, admired her chastely, monklike in the corner
of the pub.
I don’t think that he ever told her.
I never saw him even glance at anyone else.
The others in the house told me he
used to have long hair, but one summer while working in
a factory as a teen, he’d caught it in a drill and scalped
himself.
One time I walked in on him on the toilet.
He was reading Les Fleurs du Mal.
Can you read French? I asked him later.
He giggled, he coughed, he shrugged.
He suggested we all brand him with a burning log.
There was another man who lived there for
a bit who owned a bar in town.
The bar was in the basement of his uncle’s
restaurant – small and sweaty. All the booze was far too
sweet.
This bar guy was obsessed with sleaze. His room
had framed porn on the walls, his king-size bed had
satin sheets – gold, Ava – he had a matching robe he’d
throw on if a girl was round. He’d grown himself the
wispiest moustache –
but you could tell his heart just wasn’t in it.
He tried too hard.
He had this Excel spreadsheet of every girl he’d slept
with – or even kissed – it had their name, what they’d
done and where, a photo if he had one.
He could pull up data, like how many blowjobs
he’d had that month and how many of those girls had
swallowed.
It’s not like anyone was asking.
They called him Snake Boy. He had an
anthropology degree. When he was high his tongue
would dart out of the corners of his mouth.
It’s fun, knowing a man who owns a bar,
until it’s not.
Cool rage. Deep shame.
