Sibella & Sibella by Joseph Di Prisco

Author:Joseph Di Prisco
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Published: 2018-08-06T20:04:55+00:00

Band the Sibella Slowly

No cock volunteered for Myron’s wake up call, and neither did the dogs do reveille. He felt a little better, it seemed, though there was no spring in his step. Maybe he should have stayed transfixated on the couch, but that wouldn’t be normally advisable according to the directives of the Department of Infectious Diseases, considering the ruinous state of that piece of furniture upon which he had spent the night. He probably should have stayed as unconscious as he normally was in his San Francisco offices of Hard Rain Publishing and probably should have never taken his posse to Fontana Town in the first place. But if he had done that and I had never kept him company, I would have missed a most marvelous, unanticipated event.

Now comes the place where you are going to question me all over again with renewed skepticism as to the soundness of my judgment. But you will also appreciate that on this occasion I am going to restrain my impulse to offer TMI. You’re welcome very much.

YGB asked me something at the right moment in bed last night (come on, man, use your fucking imagination) along the lines of, “We okay, Sibella?” You had to be there in order to catch how wonderful that might have sounded to me, but if you were, the double bed would have been too crowded for the unprincipals to circumnavigate. He and I were the apothefuckingosis of okay. And here’s a sentence you never heard cross my lips before: I was very happy. (Enough, Sibella, I know you want to, but don’t go there. You can resist everything except temptation.)

“Good,” he said softly.

He was sweet and considerate and it felt right, the whole experience, to speak euphemystically, and don’t allow that Spell Chechen Terrorist to autocolorectically sell me out. The closest we came to awkwardness had to do with—three guesses? No, not my length, which was kind of mattressly uncontroversial considering the horizontality. And you know, if anything, that factor inspired the opposite and ecstatic effect, truth be told. And not that I ruined the mood by babbling about books he had never heard of, much less read. Considering his relative book ignorance, that would have been shooting fish in a barrel, and besides, there wasn’t a whole lot of pillow book talk, ahem and ahim.

Yes, the fucking tattoo.

“Says right here,” he said, gently semaphoring a strategic and magical digit, “you are a Muse?”

“More like amuse bouche.” Even by my low standards that is a tasteless pun if you mangle the bouche, and forget the mangle, too. At least I didn’t quote the late great Marvin Gaye when he sang about textual healing. Miss that guy.

Ma mère et mon père, who could otherwise pass for brilliant, insisted I take French my whole time at Spence, classes I passed with meager distinction. I’ll finally cop to my deficit, my usual defenses along with my clothes being utterly irrelevant in that boudoirish context.

But as for the

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