In The Closet

My knees relax, dropping the death grip on Frito’s head.  Animal instinct warns me to look for something to tie him up.  Twine.  Embroidering yarn.  Baling wire.   Unfortunately, I already used the last of my dental floss.  

Scanning the room, I choose an old classic:  a good, long telephone cord yanked from the wall.  Wrap it four times around his around his buttery, babyfat wrists, and — while usually at this point, I like to grandstand a little, throwing my hands in the air like a hog-tying cowboy – at this point, the state of Frito’s wrap job just doesn’t interest me anymore.  My entire life is inside that tape recorder. 

 

I slide over and pull it close to my belly, feeling the vibration of the motor.  The warmth of her voice.

 

I rewind it again.

 

“Why you so bossy, babeeeeeee?”

 

Again.

 

“Why you so bossy, babeeeeeee?”

 

Again.

 

“Why you so ….”

 

Stop it!  Stop saying that!  That’s not who I am!  You don’t have one fucking clue who…

 

The door to a walk-in closet opens up with a girlish squeak, and a thin beam of light slips out. 

 

“Babeeeeeeee….”

 

With the tape recorder under my arm, I roll from the bed and slink tight against the wall next to the closet.  Normally, in this situation, I’d pop a heel off my boot – a useful, spiked weapon in a pinch.  But looking down to my feet, they are attached only to pale legs, leading to perfect knees, ending finally in a small, perfect tuft of female madness, and I realize I’m still buck naked.  This whole night has me completely off my game.

 

Peeking inside the door to the closet, I immediately have to step back like my toes just slipped off the edge of a cliff.  I’m seasick.  That tuft of madness has gone to my head like a green appletini on top of nothing for dinner. 

 

When I look inside again, the closet spans the length of a bowling alley, flanked for a ¼ mile on both sides by a line of bowling shoes.  On a pedestal to my right, a golden bowling ball basks in the recessed lighting of the closet, smug like a prom queen in the tanning bed.

 

The tape recorder vibrates under my armpit.

 

“Whassa matter?  You no like to bowl, babeeeeee?”