Asunder

ASUNDER by Robert Lopez

VAYA CON HUEVOS

TWO DESPICABLES IN CONVERSATION.

Tempers flare.

I’m the one under the oil painting. The oil painting is mounted on a wall too unblemished for its own good. I want to say this wall reminds me of something but it doesn’t. I’ve never seen anything like this wall.

This evening I will endeavor to put my head through it.

We are two in a room with six others. I don’t know the six others but the despicable next to me is friendly with one of them, I think. They kissed each other on the cheek earlier. Perhaps she is the despicable’s sister. They look like each other in the way women with legs and feet can sometimes look like each other.

The room has walls and windows and paintings and furniture and I’m sweating and mopping my brow with a handkerchief.

There’s nothing sexier than a pregnant woman I say to the despicable, which gets us started. She is the one next to me under the oil painting. The woman that looks like her, that might well be her sister, is on the other side of the room looking at another painting. The despicable uses her tongue to clean her teeth and exercises her eyes back and forth in their sockets. This is the kind of woman my mother warned me against. My mother would sit me down and tell me to keep away from the eye rollers and teeth cleaners. This despicable examines each painting like she is an expert but I don’t think she is. Most experts tell you they’re experts and this despicable hasn’t said anything about herself. She puts her face close to the painting and I’m not sure but I think she is trying to smell what the painting smells like. Oil on wood is what we’re told but I don’t believe a word from their mouths and neither does she.

Neither of us has been in this house before, knows where there’s a bathroom or feels comfortable enough to open the refrigerator and take something out of it. I am not even that comfortable in my own house, which is why I’m losing weight probably. I’m down eleven pounds and can fit into pants I should’ve thrown away years ago. I hide the weight loss well due to the way I carry myself. I don’t know how this is exactly but it’s the only explanation. The same people see me every day and no one’s said anything.

I don’t like it, this house, this room, these people, and neither does the despicable next to me. There is a ceiling fan slowly oscillating like it’s running out of gas, like it’s about to fall down and die in the middle of everything. The blades resemble battle-worn sabers covered with nicks, markings and bloodstains. Like Indian artifacts someone dug up in Illinois under a mound of dirt. Everyone here looks like this ceiling fan. When I say everyone here I include myself, the despicable, and the six people paired off and spread across this big room. I think this house and ceiling fan belong to two of them but I’m not sure which two.

There are abstract paintings hanging on every wall. There is no way to describe the paintings other than to say they belong on these walls and no place else. Everyone is walking around the room to look at them. We know to move to the next painting when our replacements come to look at the painting we’ve been looking at. This takes two minutes, roughly. I pretend to look at the paintings the same as everyone else. To really sell it I squint my eyes, furrow my brow, and tilt my head. I saw an artist look at paintings once and have never forgotten how to mimic it. I forget where I was when I saw the artist look at paintings. I don’t think it was someone’s house but I could be wrong about that. I try to keep out of houses that have paintings hanging on the walls.

When the people talk they whisper instead of talk. It makes me think someone is sleeping, a child perhaps. Adults are always motivated to keep a sleeping child asleep. In this way I can be considered an adult. Whenever I am around a child I do my best not to disturb it sleeping. If a child is awake I excuse myself and go straight home. Some people find this odd but to me it makes sense. I have nothing to say to children and find their company tedious. I don’t think there are any children in this house. Still I can hear the whisperers. I hear two of them say the house is two hundred years old and something about negative space.

I don’t know who painted these paintings. Some painters sign their paintings or initial them but the painter who painted these did no such thing. You can’t blame him or her. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were numbers underneath the oils.

There is no way to tell if the painter was male or female. Perhaps an expert could tell but I don’t see how. I’m assuming the painter was male or female as opposed to is male or female because I assume the painter is dead. If the painter is alive I’m certain he or she would not allow strangers to view these paintings. I don’t think one of the other six people or the despicable next to me is responsible for the paintings.

This despicable is not a pregnant woman herself. She looks like she could be pregnant if she applied herself. She has all the requisite equipment. Perhaps taking long walks, drinking green tea, and changing her name would help. She is taller than me by two or three inches but most of that’s hair and shoes. I don’t know who she is but she is next to me under this oil painting. She acts like she knows me. She has put her hand on my shoulder twice and left it there for a minute or two each time. She is not sweating so I don’t offer her the handkerchief. Every time I use it she thinks there’s something wrong with me.

This despicable could be my wife of two years. She resembles my wife in that they are both women of a certain age with eyelashes and painted toenails. There are similarities in complexion, hair color, and deportment. But I think I left my wife home today. I think we argued over how to get here and when I went out the door she stayed in our living room. She wanted to walk and I wanted to drive was the problem.

The two connubial years have included several hangovers and a month of Sundays so I sometimes have trouble recognizing her.

There’s nothing sexier than a pregnant woman, she repeats.

I do believe that’s true, I say.

You’re despicable, she says.

And I say something like it takes one to know one and it takes two to tango but three’s a crowd and the more the merrier.

For whatever reason we are whispering this to each other. Something about this room turns you into a librarian.

So the woman next to me whispers you’re a despicable except she adds the word fucking as a qualifier.

There is a caged dog in the kitchen of this house no one wants to discuss. This dog looks like a mistake of evolution, like a cross between a fox and a South American rodent. The dog’s head is decidedly too small for its body and it has a long and furless tail. The dog hasn’t stopped whining but no one pays attention to it. Everyone here is afraid of this dog.

What is with this dog, I say to the despicable.

Don’t, she says back.

The more I look at and talk to this despicable the more I think she might be my wife.

This happens to me from time to time. I’ll forget the route to my favorite restaurant or lose my place in a book or get lost on the way to the upstairs bathroom at home. The wife I think I left home in the living room thinks there is something wrong with me. She thinks I should see a doctor, have tests done. She thinks they should stick me in a tube and not let me out until I can retain basic information like everyone else.

The despicable next to me hasn’t mentioned any tests, which might be a dead giveaway.

There is no accounting for what is wrong with me. I’ve never suffered an injury or a disease that would’ve resulted in a compromise of both short- and long-term memory. As near as I can remember I’ve always been this way. I wasn’t allowed to walk to school because the one time I did I went missing for two days. My mother hung my picture on street signs and light poles and went on television to get me back home.