The Dishes

“Last week, there was a trans woman at Pride who had giant hairy tatas,” my friend says, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. He pantomimes tatas, jiggling a cupped hand in front of his chest. “They were swinging around for everyone to see, furry and free.”

I scowl. “You’re gonna burn this place down,” I say, pointing with my big toe toward the plastic bucket he’s ashing into.

He ignores my warning. “You and I both know there’s someone out there who can’t wait to bury their face in those things.” He motorboats imaginary flesh.

I shrug. “Everyone wants to do ayahuasca, but no one wants to do the dishes.”

He stares at me, grinning. “Sometimes, I like to imagine my friends as babies,” he says, “and then I like to imagine what it’s like to hold them.”

I wonder if he knows I turned purple with colic the instant my mother left the room. That I was a ten pound newborn. That I looked like Jabba the Hut.

“Here’s a question, I say, changing the subject. “You know when you bump into some dude from high school, and it’s awkward because they were an asshole back in the day? But you do the polite thing - ask them how they’re doing and such - and they scoff and say living the dream?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“I wish they’d just admit they can’t get hard anymore.”

My friend snorts and smoke streams from his nose, a cartoon bull.

“Lao Tzu says if you never assume importance, you never lose it,” I say, then smile prettily and flip my sunglasses up, so he can see my eyes wrinkle.

“Stop being the only one who does the dishes,” he says, tossing the burning stub of his cigarette into the plastic bucket.