“Garret, can you stay in the living room while I take a shower?”

Her hair, with the papery texture of envelopes, crinkled grayly down her neck.

Her breath smelled like Colgate toothpaste, swirling in loud peppermint circles.

Her face--

well, it was nothing to write home about.

She graduated high school a valedictorian.

She had french-kissed her Calculus homework and subtracted her French classes.

The speech she gave was like a colonoscopy exam--

long, protracted, and painful.

“Garret, can you change the baby’s diaper?”

Once, this woman,

my one true love,

played tennis for hours and hours,

stretching those bright yellow balls she brought along on the pale green court,

and the whole scene had the colorful taste of jawbreakers.

Oh, my sweet jawbreaker!

She had swung her club of fury, a nine-iron I believe, into the air--

my face!

With the booming crack of bone and flesh,

with the soft purr of her sedan,

she went with me towards the whooshing trauma of the emergency room.

The doctors went to work, all the ward’s men putting my jaw back together again.

I had the punctual naps of pussycats and woke to the sight of her:

my love and joy.

With more apologies than Canada and skin redder than its bacon,

she asked me if we were still okay.

I smiled and I grimaced.

It was the best anyone could hope for as our chapped lips met yet again.

“Garret, did you forget to brush your teeth?”