How does one god kill another? I contemplate this as I sit perched on my web, tucked beneath the shadow of the birdbath. He makes his rounds, scrupulously inspecting each row of tulips before moving ... [+]
he bent over backwards.
If other lovers went the extra mile, he ran. Across the stone pavement where their lovenest was erected, he tumbled around and landed perfectly on both feet. When her clients ran their mouths too coarsely, he knew, as if their guts were sewn together by God or some other mystical figure, and he could sense the punch coming. Then, walking home from the Academy, he would make a sharp turn, take noon-sun colored daisies from the back alley of a florist's home into his chalky hands, pick at the bugs and dried leaves, and smile brightly at her.
He lived a double life as a fly in the walls of the salon that she had built from perspiration and the perfect coaxing of client's insecurities. She was good at her job, really. She was careful and meticulous and quiet as she held the minx lashes with the tiniest pair of tweezers. She knew, intuitively, the magic words that made clients throw their money her way. She was confident that it was good and honest work, and he didn't doubt her. Who was he to tell her what the difference between ash blonde and metallic gray was? To him, they were silver, true and through -
For her love, he kept his mouth shut. Until one day, his thoughts had nowhere to go and a blood vessel in his head burst.
Ever since, muffled groans of pain slip past his oral cavity. The vibrations flit past her chest as she lay beside him, carefully and meticulously and quietly. With soft, weary eyes, she watches as puffs of air come out in labored breaths, and feels his pain in her gut.
Her new lover lingers inside the bathroom when the toilet paper runs out. He watches the ebb and flow of water spat out by the faucet, in mild fascination. He understands, you see, that the water cannot keep overflowing in the sink: any dent on the spotless, scrubbed bleached floor would keep her upset for a minimum of five hours. Taking a meaty fist out, he strangles the faucet at its throat, until it stops spitting. It is almost imperceptible: how his mouth curves up at the tiniest smile, as he struggles to reel in the reflex.
Her old lover cranes his head to look at the noise. Bent over backwards, he is met with limbs on limbs and frenzied acrobatics. He watches, carefully and meticulously and quietly, as they stain the bathroom in more ways than one.