By Sevens by J W Goll

When you ask me to take off my pants I agree and drop them to the floor, white undies shining brighter than the clouds, which I hope will blind you to my shyness. Then I see the mantis on the doorjamb leading to the treehouse deck and say we need to stop. I’d seen one on grandma’s body right before she died. Seconds before. She saw it too, said adios, and was gone. I know a sign when I see one.

Are you going to twitch every time you see a bug? you ask, annoyed.

You’ll be the one to twitch when I eat your head, I giggle.

Insect jokes are stupid, you say.

Then you swing down on the rope, leaving me wondering whether to thank or cuss the mantis. You hit the ground off balance, take two awkward steps trying to right yourself, trip on a stump and smash your head. As you groan on the ground (you hold your head, but really it is your ankle that’s broken) I toss my shirt off too and dance above. You can’t see through your tears, but not much to see. I am seven.

I watch you run across the field in pursuit of the fly ball which eludes your grasp. You can throw but you are shit at running. The ankle never healed properly, but to your credit you never blamed me. What isn’t to your credit is you telling other boys you saw me naked, which you hadn’t.

Lame! I shout. I am here to embarrass you back. Try golf. I scream, You get to use a cart! Your teammates grumble, then laugh, but to my frustration you aren’t offended, you barely pay attention. This game is what’s lame! you laugh.

OK, so maybe you didn’t say that about me, maybe I just wish you had. To make me interesting. Also, then I’d have a hook in you.

I have my first breakdown, but I’m still cute. Ask anybody. I see you the summer right after I get out and you ask me for coffee. One look in your eye and I know you’re interested.

As soon as the voices go away, I say. As soon as this jesus fella quits following me around and shuts the fuck up. I am joking, my default strategy, and somehow you understand this right away.

Let’s crucify him again! you say. Make it permanent this time. You are trying, and I’m impressed I don’t scare you off. Making people uncomfortable is what passes for fun. Everything else is flat, flat, flat.

Forget the coffee. I’ll bring weed to the park tonight, you say. I’ll read you a horror story. You come with a romance. We’ll alternate, line by line. You think this is seduction, which it is not…….is………is not. I have a diagnosis, so most people steer clear, but not you. Probably because I’m still cute. Ask anybody.

Fall comes early this year, middle of August, fifty degrees. Last year I worked delivering mail, but wouldn’t wear that ugly uniform that doesn’t show off my nice arms and abs so they fired me, as in “You’re fired!” like they think they’re on a TV show.

This year I’m at a drive-in that specializes in pork tenderloin sandwiches the size of hubcaps. The deep fry oil is intoxicating, but the tiny skirts are worse than the mailman pants. I bend over as much as I can, I’m always dropping change. The owner had a good thing going, but now he has a gold mine. Anybody can look, but somebody says something rude and I scratch their paint job with the metal tray. Everyone knows the deal, everyone’s happy but me. I should quit but don’t.

One cold day you pull in with a girl driving a white Volvo, but my ass is freezing so I don’t see you until I’m at your window. Girl would be attractive if her boobs weren’t so big. I’m disappointed in you, but your look suggests it’s mutual. I put a deep eight inch gash on the passenger side door and the Dolly girl screams and throws gravel backing out. You wave a flirty little wave as you pull away. Nobody sees it but me.

I got married, then divorced. Met him in group and it played out just like I expected it would. Just like he thought it would. We gave ourselves pats on the back for lasting the two years. I made him feel dumb and he made me feel ugly, even though I knew it wasn’t true. More like an internal ugly. On the outside I’m pretty. Swear to god.

I go to a march, environmental something or other, and there you are with two small children. We walk together and I see you still have a limp, worse than before.

Gotta do whatever we can do, no? you say. Save the world for the kids.

Not really, I think, but don’t say it out loud.

My wife is in Japan on work, you say by way of explanation.

Unnecessary, don’t care, but I don’t say this out loud either.

When its over we walk to your car, but I won’t accept a ride. Don’t want to give your kids cooties, I say.

Not worried, you answer. Cooties are genetic.

So is your easy optimism, I want to say, but instead, Come from a long line of sexy coots!

I’m thirty-five this year and some say that’s middle age, but I’m OK cause, Coots never stop dancing, I roar, then dance to prove it.

Never doubted, you say. We might be moving to Japan, you add as you drive away.

This time it’s treatment over objection. TOO as it shows up in the medical chart, as though they’re trying to hide something. It’s all code, I tell the resident. What’s all code? he says. He’s trying to draw me out, say something he can write in his notes. An insight that will impress his attending.

I’ll bite.

You speak in tongues like pentecostals. It’s a secret gibberish language. It all means whatever you say it means. Nobody can dispute anything you say cause it means nothing in the first place. It’s indisputable. By definition! 

There, I got him scribbling.

After, the big nurses come in, hold me down, and shoot me full of something or other. I scratch one of them real nice, so I feel good about that at least.

Third week in, I get your letter. I’m drugged up and it takes me all day to finish the page. Something about a mantis helping you through a rough patch, something about your wheelchair. Beer when you get out? you ask. I’ve got a book I think you’ll like.

Don’t read anymore and beer don’t mix with Lithium, so no, I don’t think so. Anyways, if this is a seduction you are not doing a good job.

I read it again next day and this time you are. Doing a good job, that is. Seducing, that is. Lot of things sound flirty to a forty year old psychonaut.

Sorry for the bad deal, forty-nine ain’t much, but it’s a worse deal for me cause now you’re gone. I ain’t. Almost didn’t see the notice. Wasn’t anybody to let me know.

Surprised to see a casket and not an urn but maybe you weren’t consulted.

I watch from behind a rise and somebody musta had a lot to say cause the cemetery thing takes forever.

When they’re gone I stroll over to the dirt mound. What an ugly thing to do to  someone. To change the mood I drop my skirt and dance in my underpants, take the shirt off too.

Saw a mantis on your stone and smashed it. Don’t mean a thing and that’s what I shoulda done in the tree house. Maybe woulda had different lives. A few people see me from a distance and stare but don’t care cause I’m beautiful. They couldn’t take that away from me. Not the doctors, not the drugs, not the pity looks, not the years.

So I’m good, more beautiful every day in fact, maybe the most beautiful woman ever lived. Right behind me in line are Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, maybe a young Lauren Bacall.

I dance for as long as they let me. Woulda liked it. A lot. Just wish you were here to see it.

J W Goll

Image: Wooden tree house in the upper branches of a tree from pixabay.com