He speaks to the penis to cajole and comfort, to sometimes instruct, to above all else socialize and introduce the penis to a world populated by others. To remind the penis of the broader community outside their townhome and of the warmth and timbre of his voice. “Let me know if it’s too hot,” he says during the summer months, meaning take care of yourself, on my behalf. “Express yourself,” he says to the pensive penis. Here he means notice me. The penis is silent and he cannot help but fear the penis misinterpreting his tone or words. He tries not to succumb to his fears. “We don’t believe in gas-lighting, and we never will. That’s not what this relationship stands for,” he says. He is not sure what the relationship stands for.
He tries to convince the penis that the coming year will be a year of jubilee. “Depression is nothing but a state of the mind,” he says. But the penis appears depressed nonetheless. Perhaps he has not yet uncovered the necessary argument, the right turn of phrase. He is constantly trying to say do it for me, without having to ask. He hopes the penis might opt to live for him and him alone.
He frets that, enmeshed in his own inadequacies and insecurities, he might harm the penis more than the penis has already been harmed by the inadequacies and insecurities of others. “They did the best they could, and they did a shitty job,” he says in regards to the penis’s parents. His therapist suggests a change of scenery might do them both some good. “A change of scenery might do us both some good,” he says to the penis. He plans vacations outdoors amidst the splendor of American nature. They visit unmapped islands in the Great Lakes and hike through the mapped paths of the National Park System. He packs a picnic of lobster and a watercress salad for two, feeding the listless penis by hand beneath the long afternoon shadow of a single white lighthouse on the Maine coastline. They fly a balloon over desert dunes in New Mexico, man and penis, awed by the vistas and views. He proposes adoption but the penis is dormant. He can only conclude that the penis does not have the maternal spirit. He books flights over international waters. They tour Europe and visit Japan, spending a Friday evening in a glass elevator nestled in the Tokyo skyline where he serenades the penis with songs written by others. He observes or imagines the penis bobbing along to the instrumental hum of Music for Airports while they explore an underground mall, and savors this memory as a shield against his uncertainty.
His best boy Brad takes him aside to provide counsel. “You can only do so much,” says Brad. “No one expects you to go down with the ship.” Here Brad means you are not a sea captain or admiral, by any stretch of the imagination. But he cannot forget the original joie de vivre of the penis, how in its budding youth the penis shone with an otherworldly light and how its silent, silken mysteries intoxicated him. “You only get one chance, and you don’t get a do-over,” says Brad. But he does not want a do-over. He is a boat seeking harbor and fair passage.
He is not brave enough to ask the penis what sort of future the penis envisions or desires. “Should we stop for a drink or head straight to the restaurant?” he says. The penis drinks a single glass of water. He tries to breathe and cannot catch his breath, in his breathlessness the familiar rhythm of escalating fury, an opportunity to practice the program! He inhales through the nose. Pictures a serene field. Counts backwards from ten to one. He puts on his running shoes in preparation for a jog. “Fine!” he says, slamming the front door behind him.
He moves them out to the suburbs hoping to find clarity amidst the sprawl and traffic lights. “Inflation is a shackle of the past,” he says to the penis, who drifts past the kitchen door in a spotless evening dress, inappropriate attire for the breakfast nook. “I heard it on a Bear Stearns podcast,” he admits, and he means this is our life, to build together. I have built this for you. The penis moves downstairs to the guest bedroom and locks the door during daylight hours. His work and sleep suffer. The penis wanders the halls at night, dress shushing against the floor. He dreams of the penis laughing at something he once said, a wise historical remark, dreams of the pink contours of the penis’s fine cheeks! The penis is the ghost he invites inside his heart over and over again.
A morning with the sour tang of bourbon on his tongue and he leaks through, a cracked cistern. “Is this how it ends?” he says.
The penis tilts its head to the side, the morning sun framed in the floor-length windows behind it. The penis a mystery, an expression of blank majesty caught just so and he cannot imagine any moment or memory less his own, recognizes similar expressions in old world advertisements. He wishes for a moment to keep speaking, to flavor the moment with words but is deeply tired of always talking. He stutters and coughs and backfires. The penis takes his hand but applies no pressure. Its expression still wonder, an expression he might read as empathy. Suddenly he cannot stand it and he is crying, his face buried in the crooks of its neck. The penis pats his head and shushes, shushes with a gentle whisper that might be forgiveness and might be goodbye.
The author resides in Northern Virginia with his wife just outside the beltway. His work has been previously published in Full Bleed, Carte Blanche and Jelly Squid, among others. He avoids social media for the time being, and is currently working on a novel.
The Disappointed Housewife 