She bought me a book for no reason other than she thought I'd like it. Turning over the cover I read the inscription: P Willy, From your lover Lewis. My name isn't P. Willy, and my lover isn't Lewis. She saw the childish
hand that sat spoiling the top page and her brow knitted. Pouring her a drink I told her it was fine.
'Don't worry about it baby. I love it, thank you.'
'They said it's like new,' she replied grabbing the book from my hands, waving it under my nose 'this isn't like new. This is some bullshit, and who the fuck is called P Willy, anyway?'
'It's probably a pet name. They probably think they're funny.'
'They're not!' she scorned grabbing her phone and diving into her Amazon account. I nodded in agreement, poured myself a drink and flopped down into the lazy-boy. The furniture was good and cold, and belonged to her parents. We were staying in her parents' house because ours was
not ready. Eternally not ready. I could never afford furniture like this.
This was adult furniture, purchased by adults from an adult furniture store using either hard-earned cash or most likely credit; credit is the most adult thing in the world. Turning past the inscription I read the first line. I took a drink and read some more. Donna finished ranting at the seller, got to her feet and walked across the living room. She had a
way of curling into you that made you suspect she was part feline.
Donna took a nip from her drink and pressed her bosom against my arm turning me to granite. We had been living at her parents' house for almost two months; two long, dry, hard months. Sunday was release day, her parents went to the supermarket and did a weekly shop that would solve Africa's problems. We'd make it and when they returned, eat their food. Nibbling on my ear she sold me on stealing
twenty minutes to ourselves. It wasn't Sunday but sure what did that matter? Quick and quiet and everyday could be Sunday. Slipping down the hall to her room I pulled her polka dot dress up over her head, laid her out on top of the adult sheets and took her.
Afterwards I lay in bed, my chest pounding, head dancing.
Donna took to her "good mirror", the one by the window that caught the best light. Leaning into the reflection of her own face, impossibly close, she stared and glared and scrutinized and sighed at how the Mona Lisa was holding up, how Rome was falling, how her beautiful porcelain face was aging. I stare too, transfixed by her round naked
ass as my hair quietly turned greyer by the second. She had crafted this ritual gradually over twelve months; painstakingly torturing herself in order to go through the motions of the Cosmopolitan critique.
Everything must be like new.
'I think my eyes are getting worse.' she sighed.
'Your eyes are beautiful, your face is beautiful. Come on, cut that shit out and let's go grab a bite to eat.' I replied, climbing from the bed allowing the springs to sigh back into shape.
'Have my eyes always been like that?'
'I'm not entirely sure what that is.'
'Have they always had these lumps under them, have they
changed? Tell me the truth.'
'The truth is that you're crazy,' placing a hand on her 'the truth is your eyes are beautiful, rich and soulful. The truth is that you stress too much about them, and the constant stress and studying and poking is not going to help.'
'But have they changed?'
'No.'
'Are they noticeable?'
'No. I don't actually know what you're pointing at.'
We made turkey sandwiches from the big day leftovers, curled up in front of the television and nipped at a bottle of Rum we had bought for her dad's birthday, and were constantly having to replace, and empty, and replace. What sport.
When the folks returned home we all chatted on what had
occurred that day. Afterwards I grabbed my book, brushed by the ode to P. Willy and continued reading. In the owling hours I walked Donna to her room before taking my place in the spare bed. Firing up the typer I got to work on a story. Looking around me I considered everything I had. Living in Donna's childhood home, our relationship -seven years in and six months out from our wedding. I wondered what
chance we had. What chance any of us have. What will be tomorrow's classics, tomorrow's antiques? Where will tomorrow's legends come from? How can anything ever mature, improve, become immortalized when we all want everything to be like new?