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The Art of Marriage
What, Me? Hardly
by Joseph Young

I've been trying to learn bass for two years. I'm an idiot, my fingers are dog shit. My girlfriend plays guitar, and the way her hands move like water, like green light, over the frets is amazing. I play with her, and she looks at me with only the slits of her eyes. One morning, she puts down her guitar, and we take a drive along the cliffs above the ocean. She pulls over, and we look out at the black crumbly rocks and the whitecaps of milk, the sea rocking for 10,000 miles.
     "Isn't it incredible?" she says, and her eyes are so round and hungry. She watches a minute, and then she looks at me.
     "Well isn't it?"
     "I don't know," I say.
     "You don't know?"
     I offer up my empty, useless hands. She tilts her head, her mouth in a wrinkled 0. Then she shrugs, gets out, and slams her door. As she stretches, I watch the freckled knobs of her spine take in the morning sun.

 

All Poetry & Nothing ButClash of CivilizationsEC ChairFeatured PoetsForeign DeskGalleryStage
Hedonism: Theory & PracticeLetters & GlossolaliaArt of MarriageMoney TalkPets & BeastsZounds

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