Big Swiss

by Jen Beagin

Yes, people age horribly. They suffer strokes. Their bodies and brains fall apart. But the male ego? Firmly intact until the bitter end.

Now that she was awake, she wanted the feeding tube removed. She wanted to walk on her own feet again, to wipe her own ass. A little wine with dinner might be nice. Perhaps most of all, she wanted her own bed. She recalled her favorite part about being single, about being alive, the only thing for which she’d experienced pure and complete gratitude as well as the existence of God and heaven, her greatest, most unfiltered joy: sleeping alone, waking up alone, not speaking before noon. So, what was she going to do—ask Stacy to sleep in a separate bed? To keep his mouth shut six hours upon waking? To stop being so loving and helpful? Was she a psychopath? He deserved more, and better.

HER PUSSY LOOKED like advanced origami. A crisp pink lotus flower folded by a master. Greta briefly rearranged it with her mouth.

Big Swiss went on. “If everything can be explained by your trauma, then nothing is really your fault, right? You always have this convenient out. Your mother killed herself, and so that gives you permission to do whatever you want? To eavesdrop on my therapy sessions? To fuck me?”