Free Spider on My Tongue by T.M. Wright Page A

lovely, and feeling lovely, with her, was a very manly thing, and, of course, I enjoyed feeling manly, no matter if it was lovely only in her eyes.
    Her eyes saw much, much more than ours are allowed to see, and "lovely" fit me, in those eyes, her eyes.
    Sometimes I say to myself, in memory of her, "I'm lovely." I haven't begun to feel foolish about it—when I do, I'll know she's gone forever.
    ~ * ~
SOMESUCH
     
    That's a grand word, don't you think—"Somesuch." It's coy and wonderfully descriptive at the same time. "Somesuch." You could say "This and that" instead, but it wouldn't be as descriptive or useful. And it doesn't mean the same thing, anyway.
    I asked Sam Feary, who stands at the window continuously, now, but who tries to convince me he's not who I think he is (through a nameless surrogate with a tight grip, as related earlier in this narrative), but I know so much better (hunger unclouds the mind) than these departed, than even him (Sam, who surely has lost track of identity). It happens to the departed. It's necessary. They lose their wheels and go flying.
    I asked Sam, "Is she here?" and he should have said, "Phyllis? Why, of course, my friend." To which I would have answered, "Why?" And he would have answered, "Because you're here, of course, and she needs to be where you are, even if both of you are out of reach." But he didn't say any of that, except for the last part, "Both of you are out of reach."
    I threw my hard-boiled egg at him. It hit the window and splattered around him; he turned and looked at me, and, though I didn't recognize him, he said, in a voice that was unintelligible, "Be careful who you intimidate, my friend."
    I laughed.
    He laughed.
    We should have had a party.
    ~ * ~
2:14
     
    When I visited Phyllis's grave in Brooklyn, and saw it for the first time, and her name on it, I was naturally disbelieving; after all, I'd been making love to her for a while, then, and she to me, and if there was ever anyone who seemed very much alive, it was Phyllis, especially when we made love, and when we ate, and when we walked together, or went to the opera (which she claimed to love) or when she slept, or woke.
    "Good morning, lovely Abner."
    "Good morning, beautiful Phyllis."
    This exchange took place more than once. It took place half a dozen times, though she repeated herself, her "Good Morning, lovely Abner," several times, too, so that, in the morning, it would be, "Good morning, lovely Abner," to which I'd respond, "Good morning, beautiful Phyllis," and she, from the bed, on her back, heavy blanket down to her waist, repeated, her gaze on the ceiling, "Good morning, lovely Abner," and I'd repeat, "Good morning, beautiful Phyllis," which would continue for fifteen minutes or so, sometimes longer, sometimes for half an hour. I told myself, then, that it was all right, there was no problem, because it was a game for her, like Yahtzee: it was the How-many-times- can-I-repeat-myself-before-he-gets-annoyed game.
    But it wasn't a game at all. I know that, now.
    She was stuck.
    All the stuff there, in what remained of her gray matter, could not decide, after sleep (which was simply eight hours in a place I could not yet go to), what she had just said, or what I'd said, or whether it was even morning.
    Christ!
    Hunger high into the bones.
    Hunger high into the bones.
    But I miss even that—the repetition, getting stuck, and getting stuck with her, repeating myself, too, because it drew me into her world.
    And now there's you, getting stuck with me in this place, this world I've meandered into over the course of decades, which is partially your world, too.
    And I do not know you, at all. Or any part of you, or any extension of you, or you (as I said a couple of thousand words ago-- reread it if you'd like; it's terribly poetic), and I realize I must have been lying to you, or lying to myself, or simply trying to understand something, which would, of course be anything and everything about you, which would