XI
|
CIRCUS TRAIN WRECK
This isn’t going to work. I’d rather be a monkey’s wife than one of yours. Take your pitchfork and shove it, along with your beliefs in the rapid properties of sunless tans and five minute tosses in the hay. This life used to be fun—you with your muscle-man act and your tight, sequined pants. I was a fool to forgive you when you screamed out, “Marianne,” rubbing your burly chest in almond oil and taking you in again. I let you believe you were the jewel that people came to see, a hurricane swelling on a purple bucket. But you could never entertain like the trapeze artists, their arms locked, teeth shining in Barnum & Bailey’s “Greatest Show on Earth,” so I’m moving to Nantucket where Prunus dulcis grows rampant now, with Brad, the handsome circus clerk who likes how I do things adagio. |