Eric Beeny



His uncircumcised penis looked just like an anteater. She never said anything about it. He threw the towel on the floor near the pile of clothes. The alarm blinked 12:00 like a turn signal. She hadn’t even opened her gift yet.


Her vagina looked just like a seashell. She opened the door and he got real close to her, breathing, but didn’t kiss her. He looked at her lips. Behind him it was raining outside. Her telephone rang. He asked if she was going to get that. She didn’t know what to say.


He tattooed a limousine on his penis. He reached over her in bed, hit the snooze. She was still asleep. He lay back down, looked at her. He couldn’t think of anything to get her. A car alarm went off outside.


When he put his ear to her vagina he heard his name in its ocean, recorded and whispering back, his tongue pressing Play. She played with his hair, bit her lower lip. The curtains puffed up into the room like a lung breathing. The television was on, the sound off. The rain an audience, applauding.


Putting one on made him feel like a worm was giving him a blowjob. After, he bit the apple first. He held the apple, dirt under his nails. She took a smaller bite, some juice running down her chin. He wiped it with his thumb, some dirt smeared. Not worm, eel.


She should’ve said something—didn’t like the zoo, afraid of cars. She wasn’t expecting him to get her anything. He was asleep. The towel still wet, his umbrella leaning against the cabinet by the door he didn’t fully close behind him.


His penis looked just like an accordion. She never learned to play an instrument. He lay there naked. It was hard to imagine him doing laundry, folding his clothes. His skin was wrinkled enough, down there. The potted plant by the window drooping, leaves browning, the rain just outside.


She should’ve said something. This wasn’t going to work. She wanted him too much. Or was it him, his ear like a seashell, listening backwards. She didn’t want to open her gift yet. She’d save it for when she found her underwear.


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