[5] Mr. Shortcut

I call my boyfriend apostrophe because he’s so possessive. He calls me enigma because I’m not.

I’m married, I say.
Hire a double he says, to go through the motions of your life.

But emotions are my bread and butter. Why hire a Sherpa to pack your gear up the hill? Dad was Mr. Shortcut. Always after a quicker route to Uncle Stout’s, though he hated iced tea and saying grace before a Sunday lunch of oniony enchiladas—beneath an abstract watercolor of the holy trinity painted by cousin Vince one summer in jail.

Be with me, pleads apostrophe. Stay away, I say—only luring him closer. We’re a pair of docks on a shameless sea. A misplaced metaphor, an ill-conceived pun, a comma coupling two thoughts, trying to be one.