Which makes me think of "9 1/2 Weeks," the erotic thriller starring Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke back when he was still hot, and that taught a generation of Boomers that they should consider smearing food all over each other erotic. Spoiler alert: it's just sticky.
Succotash looks "perfect." Heart beating, little fish body, floating around in there. It's very mysterious, because though my breasts have outgrown their bras, and I have had persistent nausea, I haven't gained any weight nor appreciably changed shape. It's hard to believe he's really in there, drifting about on the tides of my body.
I read somewhere that our body is the same percentage salt water as the face of the earth. I wonder if that's true. I like thinking about it, so I hope that it is. It speaks to a pre-Scientific Revolution understanding of how the world is put together - suggesting that there is some kind of divine proportion between the heavens, the earth, our bodies, our souls. It's alchemical thinking, is what it is, and feels true even when it isn't. Then again, maybe we give science too much credit.
"I think this happened just because I challenged you to beat Dr. Big Guns," I said to Dr. Small Guns.
She smirked, pleased with herself. "They get those reputations, at Fancy Ivy League Research Hospital," she said. She dropped her voice and added "But they aren't any better."
Dr. Small Guns has the good magic. She understands the tides that we are now drifting on, together.
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