Love or sex among clams or clamlike people.
(from Tin House, vol. 9, number 1)
It all boils down to this: does she present to the Dickmare or not? She fears the lot of them, those perpetually inflated Dickmares, their uncanny magnetism matched only by their startling lack of symmetry. Yet she has been summoned. A thing as unprecedented as it is provoking.
And she has awakened with a curious rash. It circles her body like a cummerbund. A rash as florid as those coral gardens so appreciated by lovers of bijouterie. A rash having surged directly—or so she supposes—from her husband’s anomalous—or so she hopes—behavior.
Once she had thought her husband admirable. Admirable his thorny cone, his sweet horny operculum, his prowess as a swimmer, the beauty of his sudden ejections, the ease with which he righted himself when overturned. Not one to retreat into his shell, in those days his high spirits percolated throughout the yellow mud they optimistically called home.
They’re clams. I guess. Or some kind of bivalves. Ones with a mostly human language (and a vivid one at that). As to what it all means, beyond exploring some biological drive, I’m not sure. But reading it is a pleasure. Read it here.
I haven’t posted in a while, mostly cause I was working on this and read Dave Egger’s What is the What.