Romance Novel, Grapes of Ass

On the left cheek and part of the right, hewn from the sacred earth of the flesh and the flesh of that earth and so forth, the sun’s rays came down. The rays were warming, the sky muted.

The woman was naked, belly against the grass of her suburban lawn. She was slightly too long for the blanket. Tall hedges blocked her exposed body from the surrounding yards. The dog licked beads of sweat from her forehead as she stretched one arm back, rotating herself like a one-winged angel, to make contact with her own ass, to confirm it was still there. It was still there. What was a spine, she thought, but a city with hills in the distance?

She called her husband’s name. He was on the porch, reading yesterday’s newspaper. He sighed and pushed down on his knees as he rose to get the grapes. The grapes were fresh and still chilled in their bowl. One by one, her husband hurled those eyeballs-of-the-vine at his wife’s plump hindquarters where, at the moment of contact between fruit flesh and lady flesh, they bounced into the mouth of the dog.

“He likes it,” said the woman, head turned to the ground, half talking to the dog, half talking to no one.