The Way You Used To

I miss you, baby.

I miss the way you used to read me the morning obituaries in your lusty phone-sex voice. That always reminded me to be thankful I'm alive. I miss the way you used to coerce me to sit on the scale at the grocery store self-checkout to hear the machine voice tell me how much I'd cost if I were an artichoke. That always reminded me that my life had value. I miss the way you used to get me out of all those awkward social jams at your bosses' soirees whenever I had a wee bit much wine and tried to cox his brand new Nepali foster kid to chase the red laser pointer like a feral manx or farted Beethoven's Ninth over Grace or simply tried to make the other guests laugh a bit for once by saying "Yeah, but does the Kama Sutra teach you THIS?" before lunging over the baked cream cheese wonton tray toward Mr. Turnhauer's geriatric mother, just as a goof, and did other such so-called "undignified" things you said "(I'd) live to regret if you pull just one more of your dumbass stunts and lose me another job." That always reminded me you'd be there for me no matter what. I miss the way you started slipping on a Halloween mask while we made love in the dark, and then flip on the bedside lamp mere seconds before I'd climax. That began to remind me your timing was impeccable, and that Ronald Reagan's rubbery face can postpone ejaculation indefinitely. I miss the way you started shoving me onto the dance floor at your sisters' weddings, and then yelled at me "You have the rhythm of an arthritic knock-kneed orangutan you fucking turd." That began to remind me to dance like everyone was watching, and judging harshly. I miss the way you started responding to my subtle allusions about someday starting a family by perfectly recreating the maggot birth scene from the Jeff Goldblum version of the The Fly, props and all. That began to remind me that childbirth is very demanding of the female body, and that I might, might, harbor fly DNA which would explain a lot actually. I miss the way you started to say "Knowledge is power, honey," and then beat me senseless with the "P-Q" volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. That began to remind me that I can still learn new things, and that I probably should've taken Judo lessons as a kid. I miss the way you started to lock me outside on freezing dead-of-winter nights and the only way I could get back into the house was to strip off all my clothes, smother myself in the Vaseline you'd leave on the welcome mat, and then squeeze myself through the doggie door. That began to remind me that I was juuust flexible enough to avoid hypothermia had I been born a medium-sized German Shorthaired Pointer, and that Vaseline existed as a thing. I miss the way you started to lie with me on a blanket under an endless starry sky and tell me how much you wished against all contemporary understanding of molecular biology and astrophysics that your hominid body could somehow magically take on the specific alien bodily functions that would enable you to exist on a planet—however hostile the environment and cruel the caste system—somewhere in a galaxy millions and millions of light years away from wherever I was at the time and"every-goddamn-thing you ever touched with your creepy claw-like fingers or saw with your stupid should-have-been-born-blind-because-at-least-you'd-deserve-some-pity eyes during your despicably, despicably utterly pitiful shit-stain life. So just die already. Jesus!" That began to remind me just how incredibly vast the universe actually is, which made me feel even closer to you.

But honestly, I always hated the way you never ever washed out the Tupperware after you ate tomato soup. That shit would cake to the sides and the bowl would need to be soaked for at least a good half an hour before being sponged. You're lucky I stuck around as long as I did.