I Want to Kiss Myself, Good God
I’M NOT TANYA’S IDEA of a handsome man. She hasn’t told me this herself, but I’ve heard it from other people, people we have in common, including my Sofia.
The people we have in common are horrible because of who they are and where they come from and how they were raised. There are other reasons, too, but these are the most important.
I remember the night my Sofia told me I wasn’t Tanya’s idea of a handsome man. Everything about it was awful and I mostly blame God, but certainly Tanya and my Sofia shoulder some responsibility, too.
Also, Teddy the cripple, who played a part in all of this and who once upon a time was my best friend, if you can believe that.
I sometimes think of Teddy and Tanya and my Sofia as an unholy trinity, but I don’t know which is the father, who’s the son, or what the unholy ghost.
I’m not at all religious, which is why I don’t know who should be what.
But this was long ago, before all of these horrible people, including my Sofia, told me that I wasn’t Tanya’s idea of a handsome man, though I’m sure nothing’s changed.
When I say nothing, I mean Tanya’s ideas more than anything else.
Otherwise, everything in the world has changed and not for the better.
Some of these people, the horrible ones, do believe I am, in fact, a handsome man, but that is both of no surprise and no consolation.
One of these is my Sofia, wherever she may be, all over the crippled world.
Even still, I wake like most people, in the morning and every day, after a long, brutal night and fitful sleep, and I stumble into the bathroom and think about the people, including Tanya and my Sofia, who I know are horrible and my headache pounds and the cold tile shocks and my erection sags and I empty my bladder and think another day and for what purpose and to what end and this is when I open the medicine cabinet and consider swallowing all of the painkillers and sleeping pills, but then I look into the mirror and I want to kiss myself, good God.
I take in my features all at once, though it is better to concentrate on certain aspects one at a time. Otherwise, the whole of it can be overwhelming.
There is the color and shape of my eyes, the perfect brows framing them just so. The forehead, which bears only the slightest hints of age and faded scars from a childish bout with chicken pox. The full lips with that charming birthmark edging toward the right corner, the dimpled chin obscured by a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed, the line moving from the top of my ears in a perfect L shape to the rim of my mouth.
There is a glow.
I don’t know what’s wrong with Tanya and her ideas, why she couldn’t see what was always right in front of her, though I’ve spent many a long night trying to figure out what the problem was and how it might’ve been fixed.