Devin Pugliano

it started with an axe to grind. tucked warmly inside of a bleeding cadillac. some tree-hugging folk was spilling out of the speakers. the bark tearing through our jeans.  spotting our shins. she was keeping a steady breath which concerned me. the whole thing smelt of cigarettes and starlets. i had just bathed that morning, but everywhere itched. especially those thoroughly inspected crevices. i couldn’t keep a straight face. her morning breath had since passed the baton into outright obscene. her hung over bruises that ran like fluorescent mascara. she had questioned my appetite. hunched over, flicking at the seat belt like some sort of mobile harp, she kept repeating, “her majesty’s a pretty nice girl.”

i counted to four and searched the rear view mirror for her pulse. missing my exit. knowing she would never mention the perforated fingernails that she had found scattered around the trunk. we weren’t following street signs. only the pace of her tension. a silent sigh or a sudden gasp were the only map i required. i kept confusing her with quips that ranged from, “i’m an equestrian sand castle” to “all things return to their wombs.”

she smoked unlit cigarettes.  flicking each of them into the rolled up window. every time she did this, i would slam the turn signal lever down. i wanted to unlock my garage door with her brains. break each one of her fingers to the tune of “we are the world” while i wear her favorite off-the-rack dress with a hole cut out in the crotch to which i would defend by uttering, “the circus is open an hour later tonight.  trapeze love.”  we never spent enough quality time together. she was fond of basketball and pot lucks. i was fond of irony and camera settings. the straps of her bras would induce fits of melancholy within me. i wanted her nipples to be the tips of ball point pens so when she was face down on the bed with me grunting and grinding behind her…she could fill out our tax forms instead of tapping out like a coward the way she always did during the second match. i can’t hold a pool cue like dick van dyke.

i didn’t even know where the fuck we were at this point. our invitation was initially sent to the wrong address. some middle aged harlequin with a red-eyed cat had shown up at our door the day before telling us, “i think this is yours.” to which my wife replied, “we don’t live here anymore.” but the woman insisted. and my wife only accepted the letter because the cat kept mouthing to her, “i’m not the first one she’s held like this.” we don’t thaw our meat like most people do.

i always keep a plastic bag in my back pocket…i’m not going to tell you which one. some men give their wives “that” look. others raise their fists. i’ve found that tapping your ass and hearing that crinkling sound does the trick. “her majesty’s a pretty”…she lifted her head and pointed towards my window. “that street.” i didn’t want to give her the pleasure of informing me of where i needed to go. i was the one that gripped the fucking wheel and she was going to be delivered to whatever address i saw fit. so i continued to the next street and turned left. i can’t begin to tell you how many different women i had raped in the houses on that mundane street. i was well known in codis, but i was the lover that only threw pebbles at windows.  i didn’t stick around for the debutante to see her admirer’s face. i was the phantom that kept correct change. i never once smoked on this street. i had only exhaled. they’re no longer in danger around here. i have an at-home-version now. whom i wind up like an eaten cassette tape and replay whenever i saw fit. i turn left again.

immediately i see the house. i hadn’t needed directions after all. if only she had told me, “three ice cube trays” i would have known at once which house she meant. most people have two. these college degree lab rats employed three. i remember the last time i had been in that house. i had seen how tightly tucked the bedspreads were and thought that i could return later in the night. douse their little pooch in gasoline, slip him beneath the covers with old kibbles and old bits, toss a match and they’d never have a chance. the security of a comforter can sometimes be too secure.

i pulled into the driveway with a frown. the erection that i had had the entire trek had subsided and i was left with a pinky that was more white than anything. she was allowed to open her car door but only after i sung the first verse of “funky cold medina.” the reason behind this is because i once humiliatingly caught her with four fingers buried deep inside, panting, her eyelids seizuring…to a black & white photo of tone loc that she had torn from some “t.v. guide” a decade ago. as a gesture, i have since taped said photo over her father’s face in their family portrait that decorates the space above our reading chair.

we walked to the door. rang the bell. they didn’t believe in knockers anymore. domestic heathens, i say. there was no answer. i could hear that stupid little bitch barking on the other side of the door. i’ve looked into its eyes before. i’ve seen its little asshole as it’s walked away from the dinner table satisfied with the shredded flesh it gorged itself on. oh the damage i could do with a pen, a wad of kleenex and a snort of bleach. if only it knew who was on the other side of its barking board.

frustrated. i began to lose feeling in the smile that i had attached while strolling up the front walk. i looked at my wife. her head was down. i saw the bald patch on the left side of her head and thought, “if only i had masturbated less in school, i could be somewhere else completely right now. she needs a reckoning.”

“i’m sorry.” her face was the color of wax (you can pick the shade).
“what?”
“i’m sorry.  the invitation was for tomorrow. not tonight.”