flip-side.
you know something's wrong but you don't know what it is. it's in the way he loosens his tie and rucks up his trousers about his thighs elegantly as he sits. he looks, sounds, acts like you, loves you, dotes on you. buys you this months whatever but it's not right. you want his hands on your bare ribs. the square set of his jaw looks all wrong next to his mouth, wrong cupped in his too-dainty hands. twice the size of yours but he puts your make-up on for you some days; his work better than yours do. worships Judy Garland and Bette Davis but for the way they move and sing and dress. doesn't see the breasts curving softly under their clothes, just compliments the colours. comments on their hairstyles. you hate the way he speaks to the shrinking violet boy at the deli on the corner of your street when you call after dinner for dessert.
you're sad. you don't know why. you think maybe that he does.
sometimes he wears more jewellery than you and laughter rises up, hysterical, like something that didn't quite agree with you, pushes up in your throat but instead you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him.
you're sad. you don't know why. you think maybe that he does.
sometimes he wears more jewellery than you and laughter rises up, hysterical, like something that didn't quite agree with you, pushes up in your throat but instead you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him.