I liked R. Her husband was a mute, asexual metrosexual. She had a tattoo that she
had made herself on her ankle. She had wanted me when she wasn’t looking at herself. I had made an overt gesture that she misread. She pretended to have choices.
She had none. She only had forward. She believed in goodness. She had freckles and
orange red hair and dimples. I wanted to add to her goodness the way her friends at
church mirrored goodness to one another.
I fucked R while her husband observed us with a smile on his face. I grabbed the husband by the neck and walked him around the bedroom. I gave him away to the highest bidder.
I yelled at R. She was getting in the way of my thoughts and her husband.
I believed I would never get what I wanted not knowing what I wanted.
I like R knew only the command forward.
I only needed one person.
I only needed one idea. With one idea I could outlast generations.
I wanted to be friends with R, but I know she was only interested in subjugating me with
her person and sexuality.
R and I went to a function. I was humiliated by the decent folk. My hair was on fire.
I turned my attention to army veterans with ptsd, the mentally ill homeless, the affluent mad alone in a room circumscribed by lawyer and business jargon.
I followed R into the basement. She whacked me on the head. I felt the grace I felt when I was a young man and wanted to repair Churches with my hands. She held my penis
and patiently waited for me to piss in the drain. I placed my hand on her wide shoulders.
It was the first time that she let me smell her asshole. It was so heavenly that I wanted to marry her, but I knew she wouldn’t have me. She didn’t want someone who was as
fucked up as she was and thought the same genre of thought that she did. Besides she had her metrosexual who I had given to another robot for the night.
I feel you withdrawing, R said.
I’m thinking about the black sites of torture, I said.
They have militias in the country side, R said.
What is my breaking point, I said.
You have hundreds, R said.
I want you to give me a bruise, I said. I was jealous of the bruises her mute metrosexual had given her. I wanted to belong to someone. I had no one wanting to be free.
I felt R was talking about me when she talked about what the men did to her when she was with them alone in her room.
I was narcissistic and insecure when I was with her.
I wasn’t sure she wanted to be with me when I had refused to make out with her and it made me sad. She was happy to point out to me that she had countless friends.

There are many kinds of smart: emotional smarts, social smarts, R said.

R had only encountered men with dysfunctional parts in Portland Oregon.

It’s not a question of dysfunctional parts, it’s a matter of replaced pneumatic parts, I thought.

When R had insomnia her metrosexual husband read her to sleep when he didn’t fall asleep himself mid sentence.
R listened to a podcast in which a mother had commissioned a sculptor to make an over sized head of her seventeen year old son who left for school.
R talked about how well she was doing with her podcast and asked me when I last was gainfully employed.

R interviewed a droll scientist about a new birth control procedure he invented for
women in Africa. The scientist explained the procedure a second time when R made
a joke about it. She noticed drawings on the wall of ill children for ill children that were child like in style done by a well meaning adult.