By JUDYTH EMANUEL
 Photo by Natasha D'Souza / Flickr And here we are whoopee in our rented house, a merry shambles of sticky shot glasses, torn condom wrappers, scrunched tissues, holes in the curtains, stains that nobody wants to clean. You do it. No you do it. Both of us young, foolish, and greasy with plenty of time to take afternoon naps. Like now my boyfriend Punch is asleep on the sofa. I leap about with excitement. It’s the perfect time to use my powers because the recipient of any spell must be unconscious or sleeping. An electric thrill ignites the sitting room. It illuminates the mess. Oh God I should tidy up. No. No distractions. I must spellbind Punch by turning him into an inanimate object capable of great love. Of course he does really love me. I think he does. But not enough. Though he frequently shouts, “Kiki, I goddam loves ya babe.” He’s such a ham. He adores ham. He eats too much ham. This boy is thick as a ham, which bothers me. I often tell him, “I am different from you.” Punch has cute dribbles of ketchup on the front of his T-shirt. He wears strange musky cologne and has filthy scarecrow hair. “Yeah right,” he blinks bleary eyes. “Youse got a few marbles loose in the top paddock.” |
