We choke down the liver and onions with hot sauce and lime, all because I keep mumbling about Vitamin A. While you are airing out the fragrance of entrails, I am scrabbling under your bed for the Calvin and Hobbes compendium I kicked out the way last night when we were getting nasty on the floor. Your thighs were solid rocks against the puffy expanse of my menopausal belly. You are as bald as an eagle and I was a hangry hawk: we were urgent and comical. I find what I’m looking for, spread the cartoon strip open, wait for you to join me before finally laughing out loud solo. You amble in with yellow gloves to your elbows and Tiger King undies, to see what’s so funny, but I’ve already gone under. You pull the white sheets over me if I’m already dead. Me Calvin, you Jane, you say, hurling Hobbes aside when you climb in beside me, dishes done and gone. I stir somewhere inside of nine o’clock and fifty, tell you to do it again.
Lorette C. Luzajic is an artist and writer in Toronto, Canada. Her prose poetry and small fictions have been widely published. She is the editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal devoted to writing inspired by art.
Instagram – lorette.c.luzajic
Photo credit – Lorette C. Luzajic
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