Kathy J. Lee

Kathy J. Lee

Intimate

We talk.
For lunch, he had sushi at that place downtown—the one that feels like
a narrow hallway with the fat chef who has blond hair. I stubbed my left
toe on the damn coffee table again, and my editor is finally divorcing
that auto-mechanic who hangs her panties from his rearview mirror.

They dance.
He scrutinizes every curve and twist of her lithe body in its loose cotton
t-shirt and pants that end just below the knee. In turn, she looks to him
for any hint of a smile or a nod or cock of the head or purse of his lips.

We quote classic William Shatner, we lose chess pieces to the dog, and
we litter the refrigerator door with fluorescent Post-Its. On Sunday, we
had Bobby-and-Cheryl over for white wine and chicken parmesan.

They touch, taste and breathe grimy bass lines, they grip one
another’s skin as sweat slides down the dips and crevices of their bodies.
On Tuesday, she called to say that she felt inspired, and they
disappeared together into the studio.

We share secrets that are no longer even secrets. We purchase ottomans
at Ikea. In the morning he grunts softly while emptying his
bladder into the toilet that we take turns cleaning.

They pull; they push; they move and tire.
They use few words.

We make love on over-washed navy-blue jersey sheets.
He keeps his eyes closed, and I wonder who he’s fucking.

Longevity

A pink little porker—disposed of her baby pudge by year three.
Childhood reserve, obedience rankled into deadly adolescent silence and
brooding. Then, Motherhood! Over and over and over.

Her instinctive love mutates, and her protective impulse is misunderstood.

Thus, four beautifully flawed daughters will wear matching blacks on the
most anticipated day of their lives.