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What An Asshole

What An Asshole

Jan Saenz

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You said, “I love scallops but not shrimp,” and I thought what an asshole; I must sleep with him. You wore a blue shirt and pants too tight and those stupid-ass shoes and I drooled, I ached. And when you buttered your bread with the voluptuous curve of a spoon, I gasped and excused myself to the ladies room to breathe. You spoke for hours and I followed your perfectly pruned lips with wide eyes and a swiveled neck. You spoke of Brecht and Tor, prejudice and film. “Gay Pride,” you said. “More bread,” you said, and I thought what an asshole. What a porous, swollen asshole; I must have him! That tongue that salivates used opinions, I must know its taste. Please, god, lie on top of me so I have an excuse to stare. So I can make you toast in the morning and butter it with the same spoon you used that I stole. I’ll smear the cream, swirling what little dignity is left of girls like me and boys like you. The spoon will pierce and the toast will crumble and I’ll continue, buttering my hand like a crazed hag. Begging you to tell me more about this Tor thing. And when you finish I’ll laugh in your face what an asshole and I’ll bite into my buttered hand because anything is better than watching you sit at my breakfast table. Anything is better than the leaky faucet between my legs. And in a few years I’ll say anything is better than hearing about your tall wife and five kids and all the insurance coverage you have. And when people ask I will reply, in calm confused earnest, over a plate of seared scallops, “He was actually really nice.”


 

Jan Saenz is a full-time writer living in Houston, Texas. She adores writing poetry and just recently completed her second novel. Check her out at www.jansaenz.com or follow @jan_saenz.

 

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