Plan B

I, God—and moreover you—made him. Ironically, in his would-be days I’d punish him if he slept too long. Silly boy! Wasting his life away. I hear his snotty breath bending around a room into an empty hallway, frantically playing videos games with his friends.

I sit and imagine his impeccable dream-snout, like his mother’s, turning blindly around some moth corner in his twenties. Never to turn that Roman nose up at some shithole motel and smile, totally in love, with no earth to rush through, without one hammering breath to purse, one wrenched hammering mistake to make. Poor girl, to think he never met one anthill!

And if we’d allowed him one conversation I’d say, “Don’t pretend to be careless, life is too short to be careless” (while I stood in front of a mirror and you behind me with shaving cream and I realized that every moment without you is wasted.) So bend me a favor, doll. Come enough near me and let me apologize with your lips for something you’ve already forgotten, for Him and me that made you unmake him.