The Unbinding Read Free

type: a fouled-up jock with brains who goes around wearing flip-flops and pocket T-shirts and a ridiculous pair of thick dark shades that wrap around his head like plastic bat wings and emphasize the squareness of his huge skull. He reminds me of one of my crushes at U Mass, that guy who supposedly date-raped all the swimmers but wriggled off because of his top tennis ranking, except that he’s less obviously psychotic in terms of his walk and posture and general aura. If he passes a dog, he pets it just like I would, and I’ve seen him hold doors for old ladies in his unit and carry a pregnant Hispanic woman’s grocery bags. He also happens to be about half-gorgeous, with one of those partly caved-in boxers’ noses, sprinkled across the bridge with sandy freckles. The only other thing I know about him is that early one Sunday morning at Starbucks, I noticed him reading a
Newsweek
in the corner and telling a girl whom he seemed to have spent the night with: “Forget the White House. Forget the Capitol. If somebody wants to kick us in the
balls,
he should attack the Library of Congress.”
    Which all adds up to a favor, little sister. Is there somebody clever in your tech department, some nerd you can maybe bat your lovely lashes at, who can use this guy’s name to find out what he’s been up to before he spotted yours truly and fell in love? It’s pure high school, I realize, and totally unfair. But it might be good for shits and giggles. Maybe that isn’t how computers work, though. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a facialist.
    Well, it’s time to head out now and do my Girl Scout’s duty. Or maybe I haven’t told you: I’m playing nurse. Every couple of days for a few hours I sit with this sweet older black man I met last summer during one of the volunteer mass searches for that poor little Hindu girl who vanished here. The guy got sick about five months ago, some vicious new mystery bug they haven’t named yet (it probably started when someone ate a monkey). And mostly he just lies in bed these days making lists for his doctors at the VA of all the people he might have caught the germ from or maybe given it to. They’re interesting lists because he’s been around. He used to be a special army officer stationed in Hollywood , of all strange places, where I guess he helped out with TV and movie battle scenes and slept with all the nasty nympho starlets . He has a tattoo of a dog man on his left forearm, but it’s all shriveled up and it looks more like a weasel.
    But hey, guess what? In the courtyard now: It’s Kent. I’m peeking at him through my kitchen window. He’s just back from Costco, it looks like, with lots of boxes, and he’s wearing his flip-flops because of the weird warm spell here. I’m thinking I’ll change into a tighter top now and maybe freshen up my eyes and lips. I’ll vamp him a bit when I walk by, but nothing desperate or flagrant—just scatter my scent. I’m still seeing Lorin, that fruity laser surgeon who gave me the massive discount on my eyes, but I think I’ve worked off my debt there (lick and nibble!), and I’m ready for someone less artsy, with a few hangnails.
    Wet kisses until the end of time, girl,
Sab
    P.S.: Finally watched that old Neil Diamond concert film. You’re right; it has three shots of Dad in the front row, with a mustache and sideburns and the whole sad getup. And who’s that beside him—that redhead with the beehive and the mole on her throat that looks all rough and furry? Maybe that’s when he was separated from Mom, or maybe Mr. Stiff was a bad dog once. We’ll rent the thing for his sixtieth next summer, put it up on the big screen at the party, and see if it gives him a second heart attack.
    Now, help me get the lowdown on Kent Selkirk!

4.
    [MyStory.com]
    Before AidSat I had no self, no soul. I was a billing address. A credit score. I had a TV, a phone, a car, an apartment, some furniture, and a set of leatherbound Tolkien novels, but nothing