Читать книгу Exhibitionist - Molly Cross-Blanchard - Страница 15

In this one we’re sitting on a quilt in the grass. He feeds

the baby a piece of mango. I wipe its chin on my shirt.

In another he helps my father fix a dishwasher, holds the tools

and acts confused when Dad forgets to plug it back in.

We don’t text, only make love. When a phone rings he knows

it’s not me.

We’ve just returned from our Tahitian honeymoon.

He puts my airplane clothes in the wash while I sleep,

sings the baby ‘Dreamlover.’

A real alarm clock with hands and silver bells wakes us at six

for mushrooms, meditation, and oral.

He doesn’t care that my vagina tore to my asshole and my belly

looks like sourdough starter.

I’ve picked a fight so he tosses me over one wide shoulder,

drops me on the bed, and buries his face in my chest, sighs

You’re killing me.

He hasn’t fucked the girl from work. We’ve fallen in love and no one else

has been allowed in. Mariah Carey shows up in that cropped hoodie

and he shuts the door on her beautiful face.