The Curer

Dirty fluorescence on eyes, mouths, ears. Pudgy hands stuck in mid-fiddle. The patient’s eyes come up for reassurance, and the curer grants it. The curer’s what she’s taken to calling herself on the nights when it all seems just a little too much to handle. Lowercase c, though.

The fingers explode from hands engorged to lamb chops, uncooked and sloppy. He has tits, pendulous ones, ones that threaten hers in size and heave whenever he cries, which is often during these Friday night visits. And he’ll Tell, and he’ll do his tit heave and his tit cry, and she’ll cross and uncross skirted hams and check watch and picture stockinged feet dampening midnight tracks and open her mouth very wide during these crying sessions when the patient’s eyes are shut tight against tears, open her mouth incredibly wide and swallow him whole, eat him up and explode stomach-first like some…