Friend's Work

Owen Davis

Something Tells Me You Have Brain Worms

Oh. Hello, there. I saw you sitting--or rather laying--or shall I say sprawling--on the divan here, and I thought to myself, "I simply must acquaint myself with that fine woman." So here I am. And how does this beautiful evening find you?

No worries, you don't have to say a word. Your eyes say it all-- the pale, unseeing gaze, the blithe tremors of a corroded optic nerve. Yes, I'm having a marvelous evening as well. Isn't this Chardonnay just spectacular? An Australian unwooded vintage. Its nose shows subtle hints of candied walnu-

Ah, is your nose draining some kind of cerebral fluid? No matter. For lack of the olfactory, the tannins' subtle interplay with the wine's soft citrus hues should simply tickle your tongue. You'd like that, no? Ah, there's your tongue now, hanging out of your mouth with such thinly-veiled excitement. You are a lively one.

If I were to say, "full-bodied," would you think I was speaking of the wine or yourself? Ha. And those fine legs: the way they simply melt downwards, untethered and smooth, like liquid silk plied by the caress of gravity. These legs I speak of: are they those on the glass or the divan, you wonder? Ha, ha. But in all truth I find your body quite seductive. So calm, languorous--it's as if you don't move your limbs at all.

And there's something intriguing about you. You seem to have so much going on inside your pretty little head, like it's practically bristling with activity. I would love to just burrow inside.

Are you salivating for the wine or--myself? Or is it that the motor neurons of your brain stem have been slowly eaten from the inside by an insidious host of subcutaneous parasites? Ha, ha.

Excuse me, garçon? Another vino for myself and, ah, a handkerchief or two for the lady.

May I take your hand? Ah, so cold! Here, take my coat. There you are, like a girl in daddy's clothing. Ah, to see you in my clothes, like you've just risen from my satin sheets . . . is that too forward? No? Oh, you enjoy the sultry talk, don't you? It's amazing how you appear so calm when I know for a fact (again: your eyes) that your skin is just crawling with desire. Or maybe it's the tiny flesh-hungry offspring of a healthy arthropod colony searching for untainted meat in a ravaged and near-lifeless corpse.

I've never met a lady quite like you.

You remind me of a young Terry Shiavo. Oh dear, are you doing an impression? How quaint. You really are a belle. And yet your cheeks are such a lovely shade of vermilion. Funny etymology, that word: from the Latin vermiculum, a red dye made from the crushed bodies of ground-dwelling-

Oh my, you've spit up a smidgen of bile. No, don't be bashful. We're all human. There we go. I know I've tipped a few in my time! But perhaps you should go bit easy on the sauce, no? Where were we . . . ?

Oh, no matter. I've been chirping away here like a morning-dove. But as they say, the early bird gets the--prize? Oh, who am I fooling with this banter--I must kiss you. Do you object? I'll take your moans to be those of anxious pleasure, not those of some involuntary pulmonary response to the ever-expanding multitudes of invasive larvae within your head and chest.

Don't resist.

Mmm. Mmmm.

Oh, I adore the way your tongue moves. Like it has a mind of its own.

Mmmm. Mmmmm.

How exquisite. You know, dear, I've been waiting all night to tell you this, but: something tells me you have brain worms.

No, you can't hide everything from me, my dear.

Mmmm.

Yes, garçon, two more please.