len kuntz

We picked her up together.

My father’s cologne carried base notes of licorice and sandalwood, and his shirt sleeves had creases in them.

She was not any older than me, but prettier, much prettier, with creamy dark Spanish skin like a latte. She was thin with big tits. We both noticed that right away. She read poetry and said prayers before meals.

I looked it up. Her name meant: harbor, or a place designed to cater to the needs of pleasure boats and their owners.

It wasn’t right what happened, nothing was, not even what happened before Marina arrived.

Since I could not stop eating I started cutting, thinking I might be able to slice away my flab. In ancient times they used leeches to suck out the diseased blood. I used a paper clip.

He yanked my wrist so we were out of ear shot. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Huh? I did this for you,” he said.

And that might have been the truth. But his pleasure was his own, not mine or mother’s, not even hers.

We took Marina to the airport. I watched them embrace. In the spring it’ll be our turn to visit.

Len Kuntz
The Delivery Man
Joe McGinniss Jr.