Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites
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She was quite the side dish, much creamier and more filling than potato salad or green bean casserole. No woman in her right mind wants to be meatloaf or turkey. That’s what wives are for.
“You’d rather see me dead than with another man. Wouldn’t you, baby?” she murmured, nesting naked in stained twisted sheets and not so fluffy pillows.
“Damned straight,” he said, tweaking her defiant left nipple.
The newest hot shit reality show blared from the television, which was surrounded by empty wine bottles and gay sex magazines. “Survivor Small Press Poet Island.” If the two surviving poets did not resort to cannibalism they would win a book deal with Simon and Schuster and a lifetime supply of peppermint flavored condoms. There was a catch. The surviving poets would not be allowed to brag about their victory at Facebook. The surviving poets would, in fact, have to deactivate their Facebook accounts. It was a kind of experiment. Would poetry books sell without Facebook? It was a gamble the producers were willing to take.
“I feel sorry for your wife. The meatloaf. The turkey. The lasagna so forlorn in the deep freeze,” the creamy and filling side dish said.
“Shush,” he said. He reached for the nearest bottle of moscato, took a swig.
“I talk too much, I know. Sorry, baby. But I don’t want to ever take your wife’s place. Just wanted to make that clear. I’m very happy with the way things are. You fuck me then write poems about me. We’re adhering to an ancient tradition.”
“Yup.”
They fucked and drank moscato until they passed out. It was kind of like a Bukowski poem but much deeper and more poignant. Outside the window a homeless wino screeched,”We’re being poisoned by this Disney princess syndrome! True love ain’t a mermaid cartoon!” A tourist from Texas with bad hair and worse ideas handed the wino a dollar. It made her feel altruistic and relevant. The sky spit down rain but the bars were open. The Texan walked inside a bar and ordered a Maker’s Mark, neat. No one in the world could mess that shit up.
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I like to drink beer and play with my vibrator.
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She was quite the side dish, much creamier and more filling than potato salad or green bean casserole. No woman in her right mind wants to be meatloaf or turkey. That’s what wives are for.
“You’d rather see me dead than with another man. Wouldn’t you, baby?” she murmured, nesting naked in stained twisted sheets and not so fluffy pillows.
“Damned straight,” he said, tweaking her defiant left nipple.
The newest hot shit reality show blared from the television, which was surrounded by empty wine bottles and gay sex magazines. “Survivor Small Press Poet Island.” If the two surviving poets did not resort to cannibalism they would win a book deal with Simon and Schuster and a lifetime supply of peppermint flavored condoms. There was a catch. The surviving poets would not be allowed to brag about their victory at Facebook. The surviving poets would, in fact, have to deactivate their Facebook accounts. It was a kind of experiment. Would poetry books sell without Facebook? It was a gamble the producers were willing to take.
“I feel sorry for your wife. The meatloaf. The turkey. The lasagna so forlorn in the deep freeze,” the creamy and filling side dish said.
“Shush,” he said. He reached for the nearest bottle of moscato, took a swig.
“I talk too much, I know. Sorry, baby. But I don’t want to ever take your wife’s place. Just wanted to make that clear. I’m very happy with the way things are. You fuck me then write poems about me. We’re adhering to an ancient tradition.”
“Yup.”
They fucked and drank moscato until they passed out. It was kind of like a Bukowski poem but much deeper and more poignant. Outside the window a homeless wino screeched,”We’re being poisoned by this Disney princess syndrome! True love ain’t a mermaid cartoon!” A tourist from Texas with bad hair and worse ideas handed the wino a dollar. It made her feel altruistic and relevant. The sky spit down rain but the bars were open. The Texan walked inside a bar and ordered a Maker’s Mark, neat. No one in the world could mess that shit up.
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I like to drink beer and play with my vibrator.
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Author:
Misti Rainwater-Lites
