I could have stayed married to David if he
wasn’t so unwaveringly chiseled. If his deceptively supple
face wasn’t so perfectly defined. If Michelangelo could
have given me a dress that was low-cut, a dress that
would force David’s undulating cliffs of eternal gray hair to turn
and fly rebelliously (momentarily) from the craggy sides of his head.
Alas, I have no such dress (but rather, baggy plaid pajama
pants that some dancers shot off the stage at a bar mitzvah) and I figure
that even a silvery ball gown couldn’t turn me tamed and stony. I can’t stay
married to David, for he displays rippling honesty, stoic nakedness, and
then there’s my stigmatism (which I figure wouldn’t attract so many doting tourists).
Besides, I’d rather marry someone softer, more concrete.
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