For Love | C.W. Bigelow
A long weekend and a connection with friends of over thirty years and as often happens, ideas out of the blue come up. An uncircumcised penis happened to be the idea of the moment.
“It’s no different. I don’t know why they call it uncircumcised,” Mary said after a moment of silence as we drove through fields of cotton, then field corn.
“What the hell? Where the hell did that come from?” I asked.
“And as usual you are incorrect.” Her husband Gary stated.
My wife Gwen dug into her purse to grab her phone, laughing at the absurdity of the subject and the naivete of Mary, which was not out of the norm, but always stated in such a manner that we had begun describing her opinions as the world according to Mary.
Speaking into her phone the request, she flinched and cried, “Eww.” She handed the images of the elephant trunk-like penises to the backseat.
“Wow!” was Mary’s comment followed by hysterical giggling that spread throughout the car. “I didn’t know,” she choked between guffaws.
It was a safari of sorts in rural North Carolina where the economy continued its assault on dilapidated buildings and boarded windows prevented reflections from expanding into dreams.
The small town had a roadside zoo. Each species were victims of the insufferable heat – escaping into the shade provided by shriveling oak leaves. Scraggly lions brushed the bald land with thirsty tongues. Vultures perching high on the oak trees explored the landscape. Gwen’s expression and vibe drifted in from our past. Surprise signals from left field, which I missed like
a misplayed fly ball. After wandering from cage to open fields the sight of these underfed and thirsty animals saddened me wondering if they had ever been healthy.
We stuffed a ten-dollar bill into a donation box, hoping it would be used to feed the animals rather than the owners. I overlooked Gwen’s yearning expression, as we wandered the small bookshop to escape the heat. She picked up a book and pointed to a picture of a lynx – surprising in its symbology that brought us back to hours in her dorm room bed so many decades before.
Drink and laugh with Mary and Gary as we played cards on the front porch of the bed and breakfast until the heat finally cooled under darkness. After sharing numerous bottles of wine, I slumbered early in the chair, unaware I was leaving Gwen disappointed in our bed on the first-floor bedroom.
My night of drunken slumber was loudly serenaded by the ongoing croaks of distant amphibians drifting through an open window – a constant search for love, offering their chance to keep the species in existence.
Dawn broke to Gwen’s silent scowls icily bending the early breeze that cooled the room naturally. That door had been locked for a few years. After all, she held the key. I missed its sparkle.
​
Breakfast in the dining room served by our hosts. I tried to push the awkward night into my memory, while we feasted on an array of pancakes, eggs and waffles, but Gwen’s angry glances kept landing on me. I knew Mary and Gary had given up lovemaking years before because of his lack of interest, so there were no cold glimpses between them.
During a hushed morning walk through the town under already scalding sunshine, past the few hopeful storefronts, we stumbled upon a frog corpse laying on its back, tongue hanging across the street gutter – a specimen whose legs would be a satisfying meal for two – certainly, a champion in Calaveras County. It was the owner of the baritone who conducted the nighttime barbershop chorus of his cousins in the trees. His spectacular tongue must have wiped the air clear of mosquitoes with one swipe – the protein going straight to his muscular sculpture.
Did I realize her come on and disregard it for thirst? That familiar shadow seemed to hover, a prescient warning that often appeared, often while things were going smoothly and I felt guilty because I was undeserving of such bliss.
I had missed her invitation and blindly retreated. The monstrous frog listened to come-on songs but disregarded the oncoming vehicle. As we stumbled onto his wake, my own funeral was being planned, because perfect timing can’t be ignored.
The End
After receiving his B.A. in English from Colorado State University,
C.W. Bigelow lived in nine U.S. northern states, before moving to the Charlotte NC area. His fiction and poetry have recently appeared in The Blue Mountain Review, Midway Journal, The Write Launch, The Saturday Evening Post, Hole in the Head Review, Thimble, Flash Fiction Magazine, Glassworks, Blue Lake Review, Remington Review, Frost Meadow Review, Bare Hill Review, Discretionary Love, Beach Chair Press and The Heartland Review, with a poem forthcoming in Main Street Rag.