Here Come Old Flat Top By Kate Tighe

Oh hi. Long time no —

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—Just moved back. With my husband. Trust you’ve been well.
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—Yes, married now.
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—Thought you preferred blondes?
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—What about that one? With the volleyball? Seems like just the girl for you.
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—Well, she’s a smart dresser.
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—I’m not patronizing. I’m being nice.
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—God! Don’t lie down. Didn’t you bring your own towel?
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—Fine, I’ll sit up. We can share, just this once.
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—My husband? He’s wonderful. Patient. Loving. Kind. Hardworking.
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—No. Not boring at all. He’s good. You wouldn’t understand.
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—Of course I can be good. For the right man.
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—Of course he is.

Christ!

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—It’s different now. I’ve grown up. I’m happy. You should try it.
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—Seriously. Why don’t you go bother that blonde girl? Doesn’t she look smart in her bathing suit?
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—Speak of the devil! Yoohoo! Hi!
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—Get off! I want to meet her.
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—Hello dear! Sorry to intrude. Hope this is not too much. It’s just that my friend and I go way back and he was just telling me how much he fancies you. Thought I’d play my hand at matchmaker. What’s your name?
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—Cindy! Cindy-in-the-gingham-bathing-suit. How perfect! Please join us!
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—Come now, don’t be rude. Invite Cindy to sit down. Anyone for iced coffee?
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—Okay, I’ll go for a wander. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Anymore.

So? How’d it go?

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—Pity. I’ll have to drink hers.
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—Okay, well, if you’re going to hang around—
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—I was going to say, if you’re going to hang around, I should probably get going.
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—Why? Well, the sun is setting. And what, honestly, are we doing here? Alone?

Don’t.

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—You misinterpret my goosebumps. It’s cold.
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—They could be goosebumps of revulsion, because I hate the thought of you touching me.
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—You ask every sort of question! Pull every kind of truth from me!
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—What truth? Here’s one: Remember when you used to leave brown piss in the sink? That was disgusting.
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—You think that’s funny? Here’s another: your back pimples are hideous for the amount of pus they hold.
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— Again you laugh! You laugh and I feel compelled to explain you to yourself in more detail, when what I should do is walk away.
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—I feel like I’ve caught a disease and its name is You.

And now—

I’m in the bath, trying to wash you off me. To purify. Maybe I’ll light some incense. We could take a vacation. Husband and I. Get away for a while.

I’m scrubbing my skin with this white loofah, trying to remove all traces of you.

Your pee and your acne.

Your cruelty. My helplessness.

(Or was it the other way around?)

© 2013 Kate Tighe

Kate Tighe is working on her first novel. She cofounded LitWrap.com, a community for writers and book lovers from Brooklyn and farther afield. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and thinks “Come Together” is the Beatles’ funkiest song.

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