“We were drawing energy from strange people around us. Strange
words and numbers, bad contacts. We had to step away from that.”
—Pop star Prince on the annulment of his marriage
Each time I took her anywhere, a man wearing a watermelon,
or a woman made of flashlights and electric toothbrushes
was sure to hip-hop by. Then I’d have to writhe
around the block, or write a cantata using dial-tones
nobody’d ever heard before. The same thing happened to her,
in different ways. (A man who kicked slime for a living.
A woman from the center of the earth: molten rock
with an iron core.) I tried to say “You’re the most beautiful
thing I’ve even seen,” but “Thinthinatti ith Thin Thity”
sprayed out. In the midst of sex, our satin sheets
erupted in embroidered πs. Or Avogadro would burst in
without knocking, just to brag about his number,
which dealt with moles—or was it guacamoles? Anyway,
she liked to taunt me with Pascal’s Proposition: “19.henri
is the funniest decimal.” That left me cold, my glasses fogged.
Her eyes made people dwarves; I couldn’t spare the size.
I tap-danced out one door. She cake-walked out another.
We’re still together—just not on the same days.