SO HE MUSCLES FIFTY-THOUSAND PIECES INTO ONE
I’m a puzzle, she says that first night. He sees she wants to be misunderstood, or rather understood not at all. She spotted him closing up, locking the batting cages, rolling home the dimpled balls, swatting a few, sweating under the lights. A puzzle, she says, stripping quickly by the pretzel warmer as if no one with eyes is watching, and he thinks of her in itty-bitty pieces, the cardboard corners of her breasts, a glossy shadow for a belly button. He thinks of the X-Acto knife she’ll use -- already has by the look of it -- to tear apart her arms, her form, her mindly matter. Here she is, boxed, plastic wrap bunching under his nails, and inside, all those impossible fragments calling for someone un-whole to free them, feel them, spread them on the carpet, dive into their jigs and jags, and then leave them there, scattered. Assembly not required.
Me, I’ll be a riddle, she says, and you a pair of hands.