I usually set aside part of the morning for what’s left of my Coauthor. She volunteered to be broken, so now she’s notes for the song and bones for the dogs, nowhere and everywhere. She shares table scraps and meager shelter with the forgotten. I’m afraid she wants me to do the same.
“Would you be willing to make a deal?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says, wary. Some of her teeth are missing.
“Could I hide in your VRBO? I cannot be around this hatefulness anymore.”
“No. Sorry. I’d stay there myself, except that it’s always reserved for the aliens.”
“But it’s a mansion. Isn’t there a closet or something you could prepare for me? Maybe we could share it.”
“That’s not how it works.”
I search the fridge for my morning beer while she expands to the outer edges of reality. Inhaling the gases that ignite the Big Bangs restores her strength and vision.
“This is sacred time,” I tell her. “I don’t like it when you’re late or not fully present.”
“Same,” she says. “And I don’t like it when you judge me for being splintered. I’m a Delicate Illusion. That should be enough for someone like you.”
There’s no beer, but I find an open bottle of wine and take a generous swig to wash down the stale bread.
A loud tapping sound startles me.
She grins. “Behold, someone knocketh at the door.”
I shake my head and hide the wine. I’m not ashamed. Just cautious. Hopefully, whoever it is will go away.
But no, that damn bouquet of Delicate Illusions yells, “Come in!” The door swings open, and all the Entwined Beloveds, from pervasive molds to emus, surge forward.
“We’re so happy to see you,” the Illusions smile. “The fire’s lit. The kettle’s on.”
I fall back. My inner self is being trampled by things seen and unseen.
Thousands of well-armed Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors elbow their way to the center of time and space, making a show of dropping to their phony knees.
How can there be so many? I think to myself, This is it. The death of love.
But a whole host of Delicate Illusions surround the Snide-Faced Warriors and disarm them. The Warriors writhe in agony, their tender underbellies fully exposed. I cheer vengefully.
But the Delicate Illusions roll up their sleeves and begin donating blood. “Bring something to cover their shame,” the Illusions yell, knee-deep in the agony of terrible mistakes.
At first, I refuse. Then I consider my options.
“You’re killing me,” I shout, tossing blankets from my own bed.
“Nice,” they nod in approval. “Eiderdown.”
Short visits with an honest God 