I used to eat Jenny’s fresh ground almond butter straight from the tub when she wasn’t home. Jenny was my boss. Last week on my front lawn, B. told me that last Halloween they were a Wright brother. But only one and they’re not sure which. They want to move to New York and I want to move to North Carolina but a year from now we’ll both still be here. Where is the country song about driving the Farmer to his ketamine therapy. The key to his Porsche is a mini version of the Porsche. I put it in the zippered pocket of my Lululemon shorts a friend of mine gave me and I feel my networth skyrocket. Sobriety is on the table. But the Farmer keeps moving the table from room to room and forgetting not to drink vodka at breakfast. The Farmer gets dosed and I read an LA Times article from 2007 about the ketamine doctor, titled, “Reckless Rx in the desert?”… Anyways, it’s been a summer of soft deaths. N. drowned in a pool and I attended the funeral virtually from the abortion clinic I work at. I cried so hard all over my scrubs and watched the material wick just like the internet claimed they would. G. died in her bed. I didn’t cry but it ruined my plans to binge watch Love Island USA that night. Now, I’m knee deep in the idea of counting sheep with the Farmer as I fall asleep on his thirteen hundred dollar infrared Pulsed Electromagnetic Field heating mat on the hardwood floor. He’s not the kind of farmer you or I think he is. As I lay there and he turns on the TV, I flash back to two years ago. Midway through my last shift, the Farmer drove me to the pasture.
On the drive over he told me he liked me. I pocketed a sprig of juniper & we installed an electric fence in silence. I thought we’d fuck in his shit-colored truck. I was so hot and so bothered. Hot enough to want to jump in the farmers’ ditch. Bothered enough to quit my job. I realized that what he really said he liked was my age. I was twenty-five and worth everyone’s time. In fact, I was one of the lucky ones. I was not delicious to mosquitoes. I was sublingual in nature. He could fingerfuck me into anyone if he wanted to. But what I wanted was a near-death experience on camera. On cue, he came nearer. Picked a burr off my shoulder and winked. But in the end, there was no camera. And there was no death.