The Myth of Fingerprints

Spending time with Bert is like attending the opera -- an acquired taste. Once you overlook his symphony of bad habits, and his aggravating penchant for wheezing and adjusting his pants, he is almost tolerable. The first time we made love was as accidental as our first date. I was wearing good underwear, just in case, and he had walked me to my door after an evening at Sizzler. He shifted from foot to foot, as he looked up at me, an almost sheepish smile on his face. I stared at the numbers on my front door, trying to make out the faint lines of fingerprints, pulling back slightly, as I felt his hand slide around my waist. Tilting my head, I forced a smile, waiting for the inevitable.

Tales From the Road Cover Bert kept clearing his throat, pulling his hand away to adjust his pants, occasionally switching the routine up, by running a hand through what’s left of his hair. I finally tired of his fumbling, and leaned down, kissing him softly. His body froze for an instant. His lips were thin, but soft, briefly comforting. Then his arms flew around me and Bert moved his head vigorously from side to side. I do not think he realized that he should probably move his lips as well. Standing there hunched over, because Bert is five inches shorter, I remember thinking, so this is what pursed lips feel like. He tasted like dinner mints and cheap cigars.

Later that night as we lay in my bed, I stared at his sleeping form, wishing for a marker with which I could add the facial features he seemed to be missing -- a strong chin, two eyebrows, a fuller nose. Maybe a scar or two, because I like scars; they tell tales.