thrown cassoulet over, had a baby strapped to her.
And that his actual crime, the part
he never mentioned, was not assaulting her
but her baby.
The narrative shifts!
The plot thickens like a stew.
…a fucking baby.
I watched her sob into her yoghurt.
That evening she agreed to his new terms.
And on they went, together, open,
though she wasn’t seeing anyone else.
He was.
When she agreed with him, or stroked his hair,
or cooked him dinner,
he’d say –
that’s why you’re my favourite.
Have you been ‘open’ ever, Ava?
I’d be surprised.
It’s never appealed to me –
the upkeep, the inevitable soreness, the jealousy.
Once I was invited to a party by an American
student in my class – a few years older, wealthy,
shiny flat right on the river –
city view – views, Ava, plural.
He was throwing a thanksgiving thing –
to cure my homesick heart, he said.
He’d worked at his dad’s restaurant in L.A.,
I figured he could cook.
I’d love to come, I said.
He smiled.
And if you have a friendly friend, he said… the more
the merrier.
I was curious, I confess, Ava.
I knew he and his girlfriend liked to go to
those kinds of parties.
I didn’t fancy him –
a sort of postlapsarian jock – expensive
crewnecks, healthy tan, thick hair but with rebellious
additions – chipped black nails, eyeliner, leather bangles
fraying on his wrist.
