The Virgo

7 min readDec 8, 2020

Photo: Judy Schmidt/Flickr

Looking back, the signs were there.

At the start, it was barely detectable, a blip on the radar. Your relationship an unsinkable battleship — unfazed. Quirks, you called them. Endearing, even.

You’re driving with a group of friends to a bar; he’s at the wheel, dangling a cigarette between his fingers. Suddenly, he lurches his head forward, tattooed knuckles choking the wheel. You see his pupils dilate in eyes, now turned skyward, you know so well.

“Peregrine falcon.”

It’s out like a whip. You’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly. Concerned, you touch his arm. Was it a seizure?

“Not common in these parts.”

You swallow. Is he in pain? You turn to face the back of the car — no one’s noticed a thing. The horn blares.

“LEARN TO DRIVE AND EAT TEN DICKS, MOTHERFUCKER!”

He’s back. It’s over. You breathe deeply. It doesn’t even make it into your journal that night.

And so it goes. The episodes occur more frequently. Always subtle. You notice him licking his forefinger to turn the page of a dog-eared copy of Hot VWs. The next week, you’re in the kitchen section of IKEA, and he hands you a candy dish.

“We need this. For guests.”

You find fleeting solace in the reality that you’re far from alone. Your friends’ partners are similarly afflicted. Halloween night you’re drunk as a frat boy and your best friend’s boyfriend offers you some ibuprofen, because:

“It’s metabolized by the kidneys — not the liver.”

Still, you’re up at night, staring at his face, to which he’s applied zit cream, wondering if you even know who he is anymore. It becomes the timbre of your life.

I don’t know who you are anymore.

“We’re really not supposed to be here (in the ’15 items or less’ line, with 20 items). We need to move.”

I don’t know who you are anymore.

“I feel like this is the ‘pop art’ room. The dining room is much more noir.”

I don’t know who you are anymore.

“According to my calendar, you should have started your period today. Do you have tampons? Gummy bears?”

I don’t know who you are anymore.

“I like a good chowder.”

And so, for reasons beyond your comprehension, you fight. You fight for the dirtbag who never remembered to wash his pillowcases, who didn’t know how to make a roux. One day, he’s alphabetizing his DVD collection, setting aside the duplicates, when you storm into his bedroom. His eyes widen in concern.

“Is it the water pressure again?”

You rip off your dress and handcuff yourself to his bed. You’re not wearing underwear. You’ve Sharpied “PUNISH ME, U CUCK” over your ass. Beneath hooded lids, your eyes are pleading. You’ve never been so earnest.

He beams a smile and points his index finger to the ceiling in the recognizable “Aha!” fashion, which you choose not to recognize.

“I’ll just… close the door,” he says. You might actually be purring.

As he makes his way to the door, affecting what he must think is an irresistible virility, you shed a tear of relief. Your heart is pounding by the time his hand meets the doorknob. Wiggles.

Wiggles again. Loose.

You watch in slow motion as he turns his head and looks at you. Jaw set. Brow furrowed. A man singly committed.

“This is easily fixed.”

You collapse onto the floor, except for your arm, which is handcuffed to the bed.

“This is easily fixed. I can fix this. Did you notice this when you came in?”

The Virgo

Written by Khadokmohon1

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