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ePaper created 2013-10-09, 06:36:00 | version 1.25.20
42 THAT PROTRUDING HERNIA MAKES YOU LOOK like a little girl. It is a little girl. I can’t forgive this nascent cuteness. Public displays of affection are necessary to distract my boyfriend: I’m tripodding for you, baby! I mouth with my legs, upside-down: my soft spot absorbing the weight of my body & I am smashing. Every flower in the patch. Sticking the dismount, I remove a crystal lollypop from my pocket & shove it into the pleats of her skirt. Lips, I mean, spitting my rotten teeth: knees suddenly tucked to my chest. She bleeds giggles. You look ageless, shrimp scampi! she undertones. Her eyelash- es stunning my lids. She’s got consumption—feel her cheeks, I snarl, unteasing. The boys will wash their hands of this con- tagion, I think: this hysterical, embarrassing bulge. But a fit launched floods the backdrop, foreground, fills my ears, nose, & throat: she is the fittest handle: intestinal slippage: rope & stake. I’ll braid your hair later, I promise, by way of an apology. Together we are away to sanitary. Safety, cycling.