We’ve been hanging here with K for a lot of years and though we’re generally an easygoing pair, we’re pretty irked about the ‘trial separation.’
Sol’s a good guy. We’ve always liked him, and he liked us, too. A lot. He chachacha’d with us when we felt like partying, let us rest against his sturdy back when we didn’t. Sol always stood by our gal. Cheered her on when she quit her job as an ER nurse because the stress got so bad she lost 25 pounds. We looked like a couple lemur eyes staring out from her hollow chest. From the depths of our ducts, we beseeched her, Eat, Kara, eat! like Sol’s mother used to when she’d invite us for brisket on a Friday night. When the pendulum swung the other way and K’s butt—along with us—began expanding, Sol smiled that soulful smile, told her, You’re zaftig! More to love!
A couple years ago, Kara started yoga teacher training. Sol was all in, even volunteering to be her guinea pig. But after he sold his lobstering business, he just wanted to stay home and watch football, said he’d earned couch potato status. Kara responded with sighs and door slams on her way out to go hiking or biking. One day, she confided in us—while contorting herself into Twisted Bow Pose, squashing one of us in the process—that she had a bad case of FOMO. Since she and Sol started going out in high school, how could she know what it felt like to be with someone less predictable, more edgy?
We knew it was her post-menopausal existential crisis talking, that Kara and Sol go together like the salt and pepper of their hair (though hers is a fetching auburn now). Still, one day, after a steamy aromatherapy bath, Kara gentled us with lavender lotion, said, I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet, girls. We’re going to have some fun! though our idea of fun is when K flings her bra off at night and we flop in front of the TV to watch Golden Girls reruns.
Kara somehow convinced Sol a little space was a good idea and now that he’s staying with his momma in Brooklyn, what’s not fun is navigating the dating scene with K. First, there was Bubba the body builder, who frequently mixed us up with his stress balls. Oy. The mammogram machine was kinder. But he’d fling doors open for Kara, insist on paying for dinner. She basked in the diva treatment until he started ordering dinner for her. It was a hot minute before the diva reared up and dumped him.
To console herself, Kara took us lingerie shopping, tried on a black lacy number that scratched us in all the wrong places. A hot pink push-up bra that screamed, Slut! Finally settling on a plumb-colored demi bra that suited us just right.
Next was Luca, with his wavy, silver hair. He brought K a copy of Wild Geese she read aloud while Luca massaged her neck. At night, they watched PBS news, bemoaned the sorry state of the world, ended up canoodling on the couch all night. He’s savvy and sexy! she said, stroking us absentmindedly the next morning. But then Luca started ignoring her texts, finally ghosting her altogether. Kara cried for days before snapping out of it. It didn’t hurt that Sol sent a dozen tea roses on her sixty-first birthday. She didn’t say a word, just put them on the mantlepiece, sniffed them every time she walked by.
Then, along came Sebastian with his throwback muttonchops, rose-colored Lennon specs, that permanent aura of ganja. Sebastian thought tickling us with an ostrich feather would titillate us. (As if.) When he signed up for K’s yoga retreat, she was elated, even though he bailed because of a migraine. Uh-huh. They’d been dating all of nineteen days when Sebastian moved in, Gibson acoustic strapped to his back. He said Kara was his muse, that his best lyrics would spring forth watching her garden, cook, even fold laundry! It took weeks of waiting on Sebastian’s lazy ass before Kara came to her senses. And people say we’re the boobs.
Recently, K took us to the shore. We were lolling on the deserted beach when she peeled off her bikini top, slathered us with Coppertone. Back home she brushed sand off us, said, look at that even tan! Didn’t notice the creases that have started to accordion our cleavage recently. Clearly our eyesight is better than hers.
So, when she was dressing for cocktails with Brad the tower-crane operator (Love a man in construction boots, she purred, having decided to give the dating thing one last chance) we gathered all our mammary might, crowded together in her new bra. She gasped. Fuck! I look like my grandmother. After that, K soured on the hookup scene, put her Tinder account on ice. I’m too old for this shit, she said, snapping her laptop shut. Remember when we were loved for exactly who we were? We did. And tonight, we got news that made us bounce with glee. We’d have clapped our hands if we had them.
Sol called. He missed her. Everything about her. We winked at each other from within the diaphanous billow of her nightgown, knowing everything included us. Kara agreed to dinner at the Aegean Taverna. Her favorite. But don’t get any ideas, she said, squinting at the telephone. Even so, we heard that telltale wobble in her voice and after hanging up, she gave us a squeeze. I miss him too, but don’t you dare let on with any of your flirty little puckers, even if the restaurant is freezing!
For all K’s fierce talk, she dabbed each of us with a bit of the Gucci Bloom perfume Sol gave her on their last anniversary. So, for now? We’re just hanging with our homegirl, waiting for nature to take its course.
