Mommy, Give Me Rancid Peanuts
Your second-dinner date waits at home to share a bottle of wine and a bed. Your wife greets you with a hug, ignoring makeup crusted on your collar. You spit on your fingers, scrape the foundation loose, and rub it on your face.
Your first-dinner date feeds you stale pretzels. Not almonds or cranberries. You don’t deserve cranberries. You love discount nuts. You call her Mommy. She requires it. Her fake nails and salted fingers touch your lips.
Your Mommy is hungry. She begs you to feed her. You offer your wife’s candied walnuts with goji berries. Your Mommy spits it out. She knows the taste of your wife. But she wants peanuts tasting of petrol and plastic.
Your wife tries to sober you up. Your second-dinner date shoves peanuts in your mouth. She gags at the cloying perfume on your neck. You wash your neck and scrub your teeth. The rot doesn’t rinse. She still lets you stay.
