I look at my neighbour’s pool and wonder why it looks like a man with a big moustache and long, curly hair. They built it last year and didn’t care about our opinion. They just wanted a pool, and I hated it, because I despise the sound of splashing. They throw pool parties and never invite me. Because I have “an attitude,” they say. Because I curse in front of their kids. And because I get drunk from one lousy beer and start singing We don’t need no education... Yet they ask me to take care of their house while they’re on holiday. Every time.

The dog pooped, and I try not to choke from the smell. “What did you eat, old mate?” I ask him. He bites my leg, drawing blood. I’m not your mate, he tries to say. Don’t treat me like you want to buy me a beer at that pub full of your ex’s ghosts. I raise an eyebrow and wonder what could be so wrong about that. The dog showed me his teeth and I showed him mine, as he stole my cardigan from the chair. “You, old thief!” I bared my teeth, and he did blink. I am a beast.

I quit my job—it tried to choke me. Now, all I do is stay at home and watch the birds. And the cats, performing hunting rituals. I sometimes eat. At least once a day—one slice of bread and a little butter. Not too much. I need to see the loaf through it. And at least three times a day, I pleasure myself in the bathroom, beneath the underwear, thinking about a man with a big moustache and long, curly hair. Because he isn’t here, and that’s the most I can get from him. My fingers know his favourite places, and he follows through.

Last week, I wrote him a letter. With pen, on real paper. Real golden paper. I sent it by real mail—you know, the kind you get at home in those tiny boxes nailed to your fence. I asked him to come home. I didn’t get the confirmation receipt. Nor his response. I’m still waiting, and I curse the post office.

I imagine the letter got stuck somewhere in the desert, and some camel ate it. It must have been juicy, from all the travelling. The envelope was yellow—the colour of jealousy—because I am so desperately jealous of all the women around him. Even though there are none.

I think about the skin showing from his white shirt. Tanned skin, no wrinkles—a young lover for the old me. I see myself kissing that part of his neck, from the back, that barely shows from his shirt. I feel his strong arms through the thin cotton. I measure them, and draw his muscles with my fingers. I make myself a map on his body. Not that I’m unaware of every inch of him. Even in the dark. Because this is what lovers do.

The dog brings me a bone as a peace offering. I smile and kiss its forehead. His fur gets into his eyes, and I shave it. He lets me. Because this is what dogs do when they feel loved. We dig the bone together into the dirt, thinking worse days are to come.

The doorbell makes me hurry. The postman. He didn’t ring twice. Once was enough.

I find a thick envelope full of different kinds of papers. Junk mail. The “D” word is all over them. D for Divorce. Somewhere in the T. T for Texas. Or was it Tennessee? I shrug my shoulders. Who cares? It’s just F for Fuck. And N for Nick. My guy.

I sign the papers with my father’s golden pen. He inherited it from my grandfather. Someone stole it once. He got it back and gave it to me. I was his only child. Unworthy, but the only one. So, he had no choice.

I put my signature on the D papers. My signature is clear and undeniable. The ex can go to his hell.
And Nick is welcomed home. He can now crawl to his free-bird lover.

I send him my wet dreams and take off the garment. I look around. I smile.

Then I jump into my neighbour’s pool that has the shape of a man with a big moustache and long, curly hair. It eats me piece by piece, and I think: worse days are to come.