Poking Holes

I read erotica and felt deprived. I missed watching porn, the way they'd moan with hysterical, brutal need. I tossed his credit card in the air, juggling it with the ball the cat often chewed on. It was his cat. I was probably allergic to it.

I used to say, I try hard for you. He used to say, I'm so in love with you, so lost in your eyes, you have beautiful eyes, incredible, is this the Capricorn beauty they're fussing about?

His waitress introduced him to Astrology one Tuesday afternoon as he dined on a triple-decker, toasted whole wheat, chicken salad sandwich with two glasses of apricot brandy. He was a dentist. His life insurance was higher than mine. Must be something about endless rows of decaying teeth that made the career fatally depressing. To be fair, I couldn't look at my own teeth without feeling sick.

It was Friday night and he was still at the office in Manhattan. Here in suburbia, the sky watered lightly with a zillion single dribbles. The window to the living room was flung wide open, waiting for him to crawl through, though he always entered by the front door. Guilty or not. I was aroused by the winds blowing through the nonexistent barrier. The winds carried a taste of salty bitter sweetness. The room smelled of a mystical creaminess. I scrolled through the site. Bondage. Fantasy. Interracial. The most popular sections were labeled Incest/Taboo.

The day I found out he was having an affair from his secretary, I spent most of the day in Chinatown, walking around and looking at people. I realized with a deep ache that that was the real reason why he said no to children after six years of decent marriage. He said it was because he hated little sticky hands, little whiny noises and little dirty clothes. What a liar. He didn't mind any of those listed above from a twenty-year-old woman now, did he?

In my rage, I had stormed by an alley near where most of the seafood stores were. The sidewalks smelled like melting frozen fishes. There was a roof over the alley. It was impossibly narrow and pitch black. An old man sat within on a stool with ten or so pairs of shoes lying around him. There was no light in his eyes. His head was crooked on its neck, its spotted fingers shaking as he tried to tie a thread around the needle. The sunlight made it gleam and my eyes felt like they were on fire. I calmed down.

Just half a street past, I found myself staring into a bucket of frogs. A woman was picking one up with forceps, squeezing its head and then its legs. It didn't struggle in her grip. She showed it to her husband, smiling. "You think this will taste good? Better than this one?"

She poked at the head of another. It didn't bite. I bit my lip. After she was gone, I leaned in and saw twenty or thirty frogs. Their eyes all peeked up at me. Some tried to hop or swim or something. Their eyes shone with innocence. I leaned closer, looking around, wondering if I could set them free somehow. They'd only be run over by cars if I just tip over the bucket. Or they would sit there and not move because they were born and raised together in a bucket. I looked around for a possible accomplice but no one showed interest in anything other than their cell phones and bread. I had thought that life wasn't bad, that it could be so much worst. I tried not to hate but that was impossible.

I hated dial up for making it impossible to watch porn. I hated my husband for making it impossible to not watch porn. Most of all, I hated his mistress. She was an Aquarius and his perfect second half, according to a webpage with pictures of cute pixies in sultry dresses and enough purple to make me envision vomiting so hard that my stomach would hurl out of my throat to lie on the coffee table making a very wet smack.

Very wet smacks. I yearned to chew on someone's skin, as it was a life-sized Gummy bear. First, the legs and then the head. The essentials, the target vulnerabilities. I imagined my husband like that in the center of my kitchen table, facing up, bloodless and helpless. I wanted to look at him up there and purr under my breath like a fat cat licking milk after days of fishy water. Just thinking about sex made my mouth dry up and my stomach clench.

A car rolled up outside. I closed the site and deleted the browsing history. The front door opened. He stood there smelling like a cunt, closing his black umbrella. "Evening, honey."

"Hello."

"How was your day?"

"Fabulous. You?"

"I bought most of the work home with me."

"Great."

"I also got you some flowers."

"Great." The petals that fell onto my lap were wet. I let the droplets caress my heated skin.

"And dinner too."

"Great."

"I got your favorite grilled chicken from Velvet's. Barbecue sauce on the side."

"Honey, I became a vegetarian a month ago. I told you."

The color escaped his cheeks leaving them puffy like the white cheddar cheese doodles I was inhaling earlier, a cheat on my diet. I smirked lightly at the sinful stench of animal from the wet, brown bag once proudly situated between his hands.

Later, I watched him fall asleep near the edge of our bed, his back uncomfortable with my acceptance of his mistake to which I had said with a wave of my hand, "You have been working such long hours.."

I had drank in his guilty grin of utter relief. Now, I pulled open the bottom shelf of his side of the night table and pulled out a brand new box of condoms. The thought of them finishing the other box filled me with disgust. He wasn't even attractive anymore, losing a good fist of hair every morning. I opened my drawer, looking for a needle. While his was full of sexual things like ass plugs and feathered cuffs, mine was full of useful things like flashlights, mint cookies and needles.

Afterwards, I picked up his credit card from the coffee table, the cat from her basket and left. Outside, it had stopped raining and the scent of the drying air took my breath away. Next on my to-do list, get rid of the cat. Hate fucking cats. And yeah, get DSL.

Jamie Lin is currently wobbling around on her own in college, a bit cluelessly but not without a general idea of what she wants. She aims to major in creative writing while also taking classes in philosophy and human rights. She spends her days thinking, avoiding doing work, drinking caffeine, and having conversations with her roommate who told her once her philosophical shit is a turn off. She has pieces scheduled for publication near and after the New Year at Storyglossia, Pequin, Yellow Mama, Sub-Lit and Mud Luscious. Her past stories can be found at Laura Hird, Cherry Bleeds, Edifice Wrecked, the Beat, Insolent Rudder and some others.