twenty-nine
Preset on stage there is a small table stage center with a large pitcher of water. Next to it is a small glass.
A man, aged thirty walks on stage. He pours water into the small glass and gulps the entirety of it down. Now that I think of it, maybe it’s a stool. But the flat kind that you can rest glasses of water on without fear that they might crash to the floor.
He looks out at the audience.
MAN: I’ve loved many women over my short life.
I’ve loved Kathies
And Cheryls
And Beccas
And Beccies
And Maries
And I even loved a Candi once. With an I.
She was a dancer.
I met her over the internet. In a chatroom about dogs.
She had a sunny disposition. She was sweet and beautiful and had both of her nipples pierced.
She said it attracted the right sort of clientele.
I didn’t ask.
But no one meant more to me than my dear sweet Hannah.
He looks at the dog dish.
She was beautiful.
The way her hair would sway in the morning sunlight.
The way she would turn to me in her half-awake sleep and smile as if to say “good morning”. I could read it in her eyes.
The way she would beg me to take her on long walks, down to the pier. Strip to almost nothing and jump off and swim with her.
But the best…
The best were her kisses.
Pause. He reflects.
Her kisses were like snowflakes. Each one was different.
It was like she individually selected the one that was right for the moment.
The kiss with no tongue, just a nibble on the side of my cheek, or the one when I couldn’t stop her from kissing me, jumping on top of me and licking my face, things I’d be embarrassed to tell my mother about.
From a small bag he pulls out a dog dish. Printed on the side it reads: Hannah.
Hannah was a bitch. The dog kind of bitch, not the woman kind.
She was a golden retriever and she died on Monday. I still have all of this dog food and her dish, so I set it out for her, thinking I’ll hear her nails on the hardwood floor or the kitchen tile and I’ll make a mental note that I need to take her back to the vet and get her nails cut.
He now fills this bowl with water and then places it on the floor next to the small table.
Hannah was 12 years old.
She had been with me for 11 and a half of those twelve.
I had rescued her from the pound.
She was small for her breed.
She slept on my bed.
At the foot when I shared it, but up next to me when I slept alone.
She never judged.
He pours another glass of water.
Three years ago I met Hanna.
He pulls out another dog dish. Printed on the side it reads: Hanna.
Hanna was a bitch. The woman kind of bitch, not the dog kind.
Hanna had an unnerving allure. Something in her eyes.
They said don’t come near me because I’ll bite.
Not Hannah the dog, but Hanna the woman.
Hannah the dog would never bite.
He pours a little water into Hannah’s Bowl.
I’m not afraid of some teethmarks, so I spoke to her.
She blew me off.
I spoke to her again. And again. And again.
Until I finally broke her down and he gave in to my tries.
link