Prose Poetry and Fiction from Web del Sol



Peter Johnson


A Made for TV Romance


After a year of spirited intercourse, she leaves our hero. Driven by her need for cash and a firm tummy, she moves to California, becoming an exercise specialist at the gymnasium of the terse and trim Monsieur La Rouche, famous for his tongue-strengthening exercises and fishnet muscle shirts. Their marriage is short-lived, though fruitful--two children, one delivered on an Astro-Turf tennis court during the finals of the La Rouche Open.
      She vows not to marry again, yet remains in California, working the usual jobs: cleaning beaches of cigarette butts and used condoms, healing through colored lights, purchasing and reselling the clothes of dead movie stars.
      Our hero coaxes her back East. He sends her flowers, candy, maple syrup. Reminds her of the whap, whap, whap, their bellies made on hot August nights. But she’s celibate now, selling cattails on street corners for the moon-faced Swami-Rami.
      Still, he can’t forget her. The elastic snap of her “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” panties. Her hollow eyes. Banshee love-screech. How bullish she was on French Kissing.


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