I Want to Kiss!
Louisa liked to cup me here and there, which was nice. I am not overly experienced. She showed me how to get a good fire going in the stove, and how to conceal my morels and ginseng. She gave me a clock that ticks. Not many do anymore. I nested her pans. We were carnal for two days, but then she took up with Bun. Her imprecise goodbye has had me grinding: “It’s okay, it’s not love.”
After Bun it was the deputy, but her latest is an Austrian student. She doesn’t seem to like herself much.
Bun peers at me. He knows something about me, some secret I don’t even know. “I got a cousin could paint this place for you.” Unlike other men, he means every damned thing he says. Tiny moths the size of petals assign themselves to the strata just above our heads, looking like information.
One-two-three plain moths settle on Bun’s shoulder, single file with wings parted to form a triple chevron. Bun is the Moth Sergeant. The first one hits me in the temple, fat and warm, abuzz. Articulated, I don’t know what you call it. Other moths swirl specks in my eyes. When I call out, the entire swarm pours down my throat. How in the hell do they know the way? Wings and dust and wings and legs and bitter colors, all diving down.
“Howling is a sure sign of ignorance,” whispers Bun before he smacks me. Saves my life that way. By beating the moths, and the living shit, right out of me. Even when the moths are gone, he pounds on me some more. When he tires, he leaves me on the cold floor.
It’s good to know my eyes will never adjust to the darkness. “Will I be found dead here?”
“Not everything is about you.” Starts again.
I’m worked over, wound tight, furled and unfurled. It takes a lot of effort to effect real, permanent change. The moths disperse, cartwheel and come back.
Mobilized. Organized. At work.
“Louisa, Louisa!” I cry, diving down in.