TMI

Oh for fuck's sake.

Linda now has decided to tell me every little detail about her and Vern's romantic relationship. It has been going on for two days, this explanation. Each time she goes into it I gaze off in the distance, in a way, that for most people, indicates, "My mind is elsewhere. Let it go."

She does not let it go.

"It's really not so bad. He doesn't smell like an old man." We are on deck and I gaze at the anchor chain, as if it is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. "I just don't like when he makes that mean face."

Vern's face is a wrinkled prune, eyes asquint, face covered in flaking white sunscreen. His face never changes. What does she mean; A Mean Face? He's bent over; what you see is the top of his bald and spotted head.

"I just hate him. I hate him. But then, I love him. He treats me so well. He never looks at any other women, ever."

The preposterousnous of that statement, if that word exists (preposterousity?) is beyond my ability to comment.

"He never sticks his tongue down my throat." TMI! TMI, I'm thinking. I gaze past the anchor chain to the other boats in the anchorage.

"And I'm not invaded. He can't really have sex. " TMI, TMI TMI! I would pay her cash to stop talking. I gaze farther, to the shore. "Look," I say, "look at that funny boat from the UK. Do you think they made that dinghy?" She ignores. "He's consistent. He always says the same words while he rubs up against me."

OH good god TMI TMI TMI. I gaze past the shore to the horizon. Beyond the horizon.

"And when I really get mad at him he gets on his knees and pants and licks me and says he'll be my doggie."

Oh for the love of God, mea culpa, mea culpa, Sweet Jesus in heaven please deliver me from this. I look off to the next universe.