A New Tattoo

A story for the absolutist who desires nothing more than the most beautiful woman in the world.

She put the cord in the holes on the wall.  Turned on the griddle.  Then Jack came in.

“Pancakes?”  Boxers damp in sweat, and a cowlick like a sideways cap.

“Waffles,” she said.

She heard him say “All right” back, heard him trotting around the table like he had some sort of limp, heard it like meat plopping on the tile floor and when it stopped she was surprised to see him sitting down with crossed legs rather than being suctioned to the ground by the feet.  He played with the callouses on his raised sole.  Pulling and twisting.

“Remember about when I’d tell you how I used to be?” he asked.  Looked up at her.  His head still drifting because he had more to say.  This was just a necessary checkpoint.

“Well, yeah.”

“Used to be so hard for me to wake up in the morning.  But now I’m up and at it, seven-thirty sharp, don’t even need my coffee.  Ya see?”

“Yeah, I guess after a few mornings you get used to it,” she said.  Sick of this speech.

“You know what I think did it?” he asked.  No time for her to answer.  Even think.  “Ever since we got this place together, I feel so much better.”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty good place.”

“I didn’t mean that.  I mean, us together.  It’s not everyday you get to wake up next to the hottest babe in America.”

She winced but tried not to because it was true in a way.  She was there, on the list for People’s Sexiest Women.  Esquire’s Sexiest as well.  Never #1.  Nothing set in stone.  Soon to be forgotten about in the next issue.  She did hit #1 though on FHM’s list for a time, but that was what she was.  And if she hadn’t had a part in The Million Men for Mary - the main subject’s best friend’s step-brother’s insensitive, disinterested-in-everything b***h girlfriend (now ex-) - she wouldn’t be known at all.  Short-lived reality TV, but partly fake.  And the other part acting.  Canceled after four stale episodes.  But now she was settled down.  Done with that part of her life.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said, “all the time.”

“C’mon,” he said.  “I’m just messing around.”

“Yeah.”

“Ease up; I’m joking.  We got it made, babe, and look how we’re living.  You’re making waffles for breakfast.”

“I don’t feel like cooking.”

“You don’t gotta cook,” he said.  “You don’t ever gotta cook again.”

“We’re not getting a butler,” she said.  “That’s absurd.”

“Yup.  But I don’t know a single celebrity doing their own laundry.”

“You don’t know any celebrities.”

“Especially supermodels,” he corrected himself.

“I’m not a celebrity.  I’m not famous.”

He laughed.  “Relax.  You gotta lighten up.  Come sit at the table,” he said, “with me.  Waffles don’t take that much to make.”

“I’m pretty cramped.”

“You take your Motrin?”

“No.”

“Lemme get your Motrin.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I gotta go anyway,” he said.  “Gotta make some number one as I take care of my number one.  The world’s number one, too.”  He smiled and winked.  Went off before she could say no.

The griddle was warm for quite some time but she didn’t really start until then when she had that space away from him.  Empty and silence.  But also ennui.  Always ennui when it’s always that easy.  She put the waffle mix in a plastic bowl and ran it under the sink and dipped a ladle and dripped it back.  Creamy and viscous.

She felt over the griddle with her hand and it was fine.  Felt the chrome plating on the sides.  The heat was nearly undetectable from there.  Fascinating technology that only makes waffles.  She shut it to look at the top, and “SCHMID GRID” was engraved on a symmetrical silver plate, an odd shape that looked like the Chevorlet plus sign, but thinner.  It was right on her nose.  Whereas the rest of the reflection looked just as symmetrical.  Two green eyes.  Something cat-like about them.  The way they move, animate.  And the bangs.  The delicate curls.  A spectrum of gold to bronze.  All natural.  And skin like fine sand.  Lips like a spread butterfly.  She opened them.  Two pink caterpillars.  Rose pink.  And all this before make-up.  Should be inhuman.

She opened the griddle back up, and felt above with her hand again, and it was still O.K.  She put her hair up in a pin.  Looked closer at the black squares of the griddle.  Little quadrilateral pyramids.  Truncated Egyptian ruins lined up and burning hotter than Egypt ever burns.  She looked closer.  Between.  In the valleys.  And felt the heat rise to her chin.