Paint Your Wife by Lloyd Jones

Author:Lloyd Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2014-11-18T16:00:00+00:00

12

It was nice to see Alma and the women in the newspaper. The ‘old and new fruit’ headline was a bit unfortunate. Alice wanted to write a letter but I stopped her. The important thing was the photo. It showed that we were alive and well, still kicking. It was timely because as usual, after the Pacific Star fiasco, I was feeling down in the dumps and as it does on such occasions, the thought came to me that maybe Tommy Reece hadn’t done such a bad job after all. Down at council during the review of the ship’s visit I had to look up at Tommy’s sober black-and-white portrait and when I thought of the frilly soft porn I’d pulled from the tip that day and cleaned up with a damp cloth for resale, it was hard to resist the thought that all mayoral dignity had drained away with Tommy’s death.

There are times when I wish I could stand in the door of the shop and gaze down the street and find a canyon of office buildings with lines of yellow cabs double- and triple-parked for women to step out of like spoilt pelicans into expensive department stores. There are times when everything here is just insufficient and everywhere else is better. I must admit when I get down like this I tend to pop through to the section behind the beaded curtain and pull something off the shelf to lift the spirits.

That morning I found myself staring at the vulva of someone called Robyn, admiring its gentle rise and the sunlit ends of her pubes. There is something deeply unserious about blonde pubic hair. There was not a single wrinkle on her face. I had an idea it would be like marzipan to touch. Her mouth was heavily painted to the point where it didn’t really look real. The lips didn’t even look fit for talking. I couldn’t imagine them biting into an apple or slobbering with curry. And her skin really was too glossy. The shop lights are over the counter but even when I shifted the magazine around, the page would not lose its shining reflectiveness. It’s like when you try and lock your eyes on something bobbing out to sea on one of those summer days of dazzling white light. You squint. But instead of this bringing the object closer, it disintegrates into bloodshot blurriness.

Her bottom though was perfect, architecturally speaking. In a smaller photo she sat cross-legged, dressed only in thick black reading glasses. Presumably the book in her lap was proof of ‘reading’ listed under ‘hobbies’. In the full-page spread she looks ridiculous. She holds the reins of her favourite horse. She’s wearing a black equestrian helmet and nothing else. Her vulva has gone back under cover, it’s just polite fringe, almost sexless really. Over the page and we’re back to a full-face shot where Robyn—and not the horse—is climbing one of the equestrian hurdles. Her left foot is raised—the camera gazes admiringly, longingly it’s fair to say.

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