Erasure

by Percival Everett

“Okay, I’ve got one for you. You’re in a boat and your motor cuts out, but you’re in shallow water, but you’re wearing two-hundred-dollar trousers, but your ride to the airport is just about to drive away from the beach. Why is this a legal issue?” I shook my head. “Because it’s a matter of Row versus Wade.”

Effeminate behavior, I learned when young, served as no measure of sexual orientation. My gym teacher, whom I imagined eating rail spikes for breakfast, was gay and I knew it not because he held his hands a certain way, not because he made a pass at me, not because he would park himself by the showers and listen to us bathe, but because I saw him late one night walking hand in hand with another man. At first I was shocked, but I caught myself. What I really felt was envy. He seemed so happy, holding his friend’s hand, enjoying the evening. I wanted to hold a hand too, albeit a girl’s hand, but a hand nonetheless.

When traveling, it is best to eat without regard to health or one might not eat at all.

I thought about that and I suppose my silence was a bit loud.

My sweatpants clung to my legs, feeling heavy and appropriate.

Enemies always understand each other better than friends.

The look on Lorraine’s face cannot adequately be described and that is description enough.

I considered putting my head in the oven, but as Mother had always exercised a preference for electricity over gas, I could only hope to cook myself to death.

“My daddy used to say, There isn’t anything so bad that seeing something worse won’t make better.”