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Sarah Seybold
Sex or Death? One woman says if her boyfriend is late she automatically assumes he’s cheating. She pictures him in bed with another woman, sometimes with the perfect businessy type who has all her shit together, who makes a quarter of a million on her own, who still has time to run the Portland marathon, and who, despite wearing pony tails, still has gorgeous, healthy long hair, free from split ends. Sometimes she pictures the artsy type, an exotic bohemian dazzler with a keen sense of style, an advanced yogi who travels to all the European cities singing opera, and who, despite her demanding schedule, had time to read poetry (her new hobby) at the 92nd Street Y last year after winning the “Discovery”/The Nation prize. She just knows he’s having the wildest, most fantasy-fulfilling sex ever imaginable. And she wishes she would have watched the porno with him, or let him do her up the ass, or had a three-way with a hot blonde bi-chick with tits much, much larger than hers. Another woman says if her boyfriend is late she automatically assumes he’s dead. That he’s been in killed in a horrific automobile accident during his daily commute. A semi side-swiped his otherwise reliable Jetta, and set it into a roaring ball of flames, or a boulder tumbled down the hill and smashed him into the highway pavement. Or he swerved to miss a deer and went plummeting over the cliff into the angry Columbia River. Or, in her heightened state of anxiety, she images a crazy raged meth-head makes it through the shoddy metal detector and into the courtroom with a gun, and shoots him while he’s prosecuting another crazy raged meth-head. And she feels guilty because he died there, without her, slumped over counsel’s table, bleeding into the wrinkled dress shirt, that this morning, she was too lazy to iron.
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