Cunti's Sixth
an excerpt

Patrick is waiting for a bus downtown. The wind outside blows up his sleeves, unable to reach his hands, clenched around a wad of twenty dollar bills in his pocket. Think of a rock, sitting at the base of tree, being pissed on by a dog. Think of the smell and imagine the rock completely impervious, letting the urine roll off it: water off a duck. And so was Patrick at his bus stop.
He was running late on his way to Mary’s. He told her, earlier that day, I'll come on over in the afternoon, right after work. Don’t’ be late, she told him, you’re always late and if you’re late this time I’m going to take whatever is in my hand at that moment, the moment you walk in, and I’m going to fling it at you, so hard, no matter what, so hard that it’s going to shatter into a bagillion pieces and one them is going to fly straight into your neck.
Mary enjoyed preempting her discontent.
Patrick worries incessantly, as he was, as of that moment, slightly less than an hour behind schedule.
When he reached Mary’s flat he rang the buzzer, outside on the street, and she buzzed him in. She will blow off some steam and we can fuck and it will be fine.
As he walked up the stairs he tucks the wad of twenties into his back pocket, where they wouldn’t fall out, where they wouldn't fall out and where he couldn't expose himself. What's more embarrassing, standing naked or standing completely covered in money? In a big suit of money, he thinks.
Patrick always took the stairs, because, he knows, you will burn one hundred seventy eight calories, about half of a Snicker's bar, if you walk up and down four flights of stairs every day. Think of a mosquito flying towards a bug lamp, unaware of it’s impending death, people say oh that’s so cruel because they can't help but fly towards the light. Then, CHECKMATE MOTHERFUCKER, they’re dead. But the truth is: they are not just unaware of impending death, they are unaware of most everything that does not seem to immediately jeopardize their survival, like shiny lights that buzz sweetly. STOP HAVING SYMPATHY FOR MOSQUITOES. And so was Patrick walking up the stars, the stairs, illuminated with the fluorescent lights, in circles outward buzzing . Buzzing all around, circles and tubes dissolving of the air.
When he reached the fourth floor he momentarily forgot Mary’s flat number, spatially feeling his way. Yes I remember this fire extinguisher with the missing pin, and oh that little graffiti next to that door knob looks familiar, that quaint, poetic graffiti that house mates (to shy to claim their work) write on walls (it usually says something to the effect of “love, you dance like clothes on the line” or “ashes ashes golden ring, the corporate world’s the strangest thing”). And Ah Hah; I recognize this door with key scratches by the slot, because Mary is terrible at aiming for the keyhole, especially when she comes home drunk at night, knickers around the ankles.
And now, Patrick knocks gently, listening for a response: think of a child looking at a playground as he passes by, hand in hand with his mother. He waits, hears a bustling, Mary’s tiny voice from within utters, "it’s unlocked." He turns the knob and walks inside.
He gently shuts the door behind him, looks straight ahead into the dimly lit kitchen where he can see Mary sitting at a small circular card table with a cup of steaming coffee, strands of her hair falling in front of her face like the branches of a willow. She picks up the mug, the steaming mug, taking a sip, and gingerly flings it across the kitchen with great verve. It soars past Patrick’s shoulder and hits the wall behind him. The handle flies off, landing at his ankle. Coffee splashes into the air, wetting his leather jacket with a sputter and a spit, like rain on a tin roof. He looks behind himself, jaw open, then to Mary, you bitch, you bat shit crazy bitch.
Think of dog, that has eaten a Snicker's bar and vomited it out onto the hardwood floor of a house in suburbia. Now imagine this dog lapping up said vomit and shatting it out on the beautiful Turkish rug someone got someone else for Christmas. Imagine this, now image the chocolate has been left out and there is a pound of it within the dogs reach. Imagine him eating the chocolate, vomiting it up, eating the vomit, then shatting it out again and again until the living room looks like a grassy field with a gofer problem and smells like an outhouse in downtown Calcutta. Imagine this and you will have some idea as to how Patrick’s innards felt.
Mary stands, the chair sliding across the linoleum, straight backwards squeaking. I’m sorry I’m late it couldn’t be helped, he tells her. She walks into the bedroom, socks on the floor, without a sound. Patrick stands dazed and confused at her doggedly misbegotten proclivities.
She pokes her head out of the bedroom, her hair, in tresses falling. She looks at wide eyed; the tubes above buzzing, dissolving of the air. Well, she says, are we going to fuck or aren’t we?