Rut
by
Michael Murphy
She asks me to teach her to smile. I ask her to edit my suicide note. She pulls a pen from her bag. Well, it isn’t with me. She returns the pen to her bag.
Is this how you make people uncomfortable? No. No? I talk about God’s cock. That makes people uncomfortable? That I consider her a man. You don’t find that funny? I don’t find humor funny. OK. You don’t look like your photo. Oh? You’re older. No. You can’t hide from time. True. What are you going for? Calamari. In your suicide note. Anonymity. Pseudonym? Calamari Jones.
She pulls the pen from her bag. She tells me to list my phobias. I ask if she speaks meme. She scrolls on her phone. I scroll on my phone.
What are we doing here? Earth? Yes. Striving for greatness. Greatest accomplishment? I invented the word fugly. That was you? Name is on the patent. Building block for a better world? You won’t be around. Don’t believe in karma? I do bad things, and good things happen. You? Calamari Jones is allergic to karma. You should open with that in your suicide note.
She asks how I managed to sneak into her algorithm. I insist she check the reviews before adding to her cart. She opens the menu. I know what I’ll be ordering.
Hobbies? Critiquing. Antiquing? Critiquing. You could improve your listening skills. Friends will eat my personality. What? Phobia number one. This is fine. I agree. We agree. What are you having? Soup. Just soup? Idle esophagus. Tired or lazy? Broken.
She asks why I swim in circles. I tell her the pool is small. She stares at her bisque. I feel the presence of time.
Are you serious? On occasion. The suicide note. Is it serious? More of a funny poem. Do you have a title? Mom calls me little bastard. For the suicide limerick. Beige Rainbow. Not a lot of rhymes for rainbow. Nothing worse than a rhyming goodbye. You should call it Rut. But . . . What? Glut. Smut. Cut. This is fine.
She asks me to tell her a secret. I ask her to do the same.
My here is not always now. I lie when I open my mouth. Ketamine. Sertraline. It won’t unstick the stuck. It doesn’t smooth the rough. I might be somewhere else. I might be lying.
She says she’ll skip dessert. I signal for the check.
No ignoring it. What? No talking to it. What? Can’t out-clever it. What? It. It? It.
Her words are salt on pavement. My feet are less slippery on the standstill. I look for a place to look. She scribbles on a napkin.
Notes for my review? For my workshop. Workshop? Revolutionizing Widowhood. So, there’s a second date?
She sets the pen on the table and smiles.
Is this how you make people uncomfortable? No. No? I talk about God’s cock. That makes people uncomfortable? That I consider her a man. You don’t find that funny? I don’t find humor funny. OK. You don’t look like your photo. Oh? You’re older. No. You can’t hide from time. True. What are you going for? Calamari. In your suicide note. Anonymity. Pseudonym? Calamari Jones.
She pulls the pen from her bag. She tells me to list my phobias. I ask if she speaks meme. She scrolls on her phone. I scroll on my phone.
What are we doing here? Earth? Yes. Striving for greatness. Greatest accomplishment? I invented the word fugly. That was you? Name is on the patent. Building block for a better world? You won’t be around. Don’t believe in karma? I do bad things, and good things happen. You? Calamari Jones is allergic to karma. You should open with that in your suicide note.
She asks how I managed to sneak into her algorithm. I insist she check the reviews before adding to her cart. She opens the menu. I know what I’ll be ordering.
Hobbies? Critiquing. Antiquing? Critiquing. You could improve your listening skills. Friends will eat my personality. What? Phobia number one. This is fine. I agree. We agree. What are you having? Soup. Just soup? Idle esophagus. Tired or lazy? Broken.
She asks why I swim in circles. I tell her the pool is small. She stares at her bisque. I feel the presence of time.
Are you serious? On occasion. The suicide note. Is it serious? More of a funny poem. Do you have a title? Mom calls me little bastard. For the suicide limerick. Beige Rainbow. Not a lot of rhymes for rainbow. Nothing worse than a rhyming goodbye. You should call it Rut. But . . . What? Glut. Smut. Cut. This is fine.
She asks me to tell her a secret. I ask her to do the same.
My here is not always now. I lie when I open my mouth. Ketamine. Sertraline. It won’t unstick the stuck. It doesn’t smooth the rough. I might be somewhere else. I might be lying.
She says she’ll skip dessert. I signal for the check.
No ignoring it. What? No talking to it. What? Can’t out-clever it. What? It. It? It.
Her words are salt on pavement. My feet are less slippery on the standstill. I look for a place to look. She scribbles on a napkin.
Notes for my review? For my workshop. Workshop? Revolutionizing Widowhood. So, there’s a second date?
She sets the pen on the table and smiles.