Vladimir

by Julia May Jonas

I’ve always felt the origin of anger in my vagina and am surprised it is not mentioned more in literature.

Now, however, young women have apparently lost all agency in romantic entanglements. Now my husband was abusing his power, never mind that power is the reason they desired him in the first place.

I am depressed that they feel so guilty about their encounters with my husband

I wanted to be intimate with him, so deeply intimate, from that moment I saw him with his legs crossed in the reflection of the window. It was as if an entirely new world had opened up for me, or if not a world, a pit, with no bottom—a continual

that I have been simply sitting here hoping to be famous like some imbecilic ingenue,

could tell they prized their own opinion of my hotness, their ability to appreciate hotness in an older woman.

wasn’t as though I thought I could become more alluring; it was more that I wanted to erect a fortress around my body—a fortress of care and grooming. A fortress of corporeal dignity.

I drank glass after glass of water, as though the liquid would do something to adjust my molecular structure, would melt the frown marks from around my mouth, the puffiness underneath my eyes—all of which I tried not to look at as I passed the

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Over and over she had to show up to the promise of her own potential.

When he came out of the water for lunch, he rubbed his stomach slowly and flagrantly, a completely unnecessary use of the towel, meant to draw our eyes to his abdominals.

lmao call him out!

As the day wore on and I didn’t hear back from him, I began to feel more and more sick about what had transpired at our home the day before.

I went over it in my mind—was I too eager, somehow tense or hovering? Was he mad about the lemonade, or did I talk too much in the conversation? Did I interrupt him—I was known to interrupt, I hated this about myself. Did he think I was merely unworthy of his time and respect? But no, no, I didn’t want to work myself up like that, it was Sunday, he wasn’t on his email, nobody writes back right away on a Sunday.

have always held that the most handsome men live in the country, while the most beautiful women live in the city, which is why in both places the pairs are unequal).

I tried to imagine him tracing the tip of his knife over the curves of my body to cheer myself up,

Every time we parted it was as though we had to tear ourselves away.

Compliments made you supplicant, equal, and master all at once. Supplicant because you are below, admiring; equal because you have the same taste; and master because you are bestowing your approval.

felt desperation at the idea that I would never captivate anyone ever again. A man might make a concession for me based on mutual agreeability, shared crinkliness, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, be in my thrall.

“I’m not. I like how we talk. I’ve thought about you. There have been a few moments in the past when the thought of kissing you has jumped into my mind.”

No, things work out because of the way they work out, because I open one door and then another, because I find that ease can be one of the greater forms of freedom.