Fragments from books that don’t exist: Not My Whimple


The summer snow fell hard and fast, crushing everything in its path like a not-so-wooly mammoth on Canadian Thanksgiving. I felt the rupture deeply. Payghun would never again be my faithless companion. We had had our differences before. There was the time she poked the small of my back with an unripe avocado, and the stigma bled all over the carpet. She knew better and did not care. Then she bought a brand new Olivetti typewriter. How could we even discuss the matter without lapsing into soliloquys? Everett had the bright idea of polishing the housepaint but Payghun burnt the offerings instead. When I asked her, most politely, whether or not she could simply fuck off and die, she mocked my eloquent choice of words.

“I see that Eton served you well,” she stated, in her famous mock TV Hungarian accent.

She was no longer the bride I’d purchased. The company had guaranteed 100% satisfaction and this was far from that. I had specified non-compliance to be sure, but outright ridicule was off the mark. I exchanged her for a vial of fluids and forty-seven blue-gold coupons.


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