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3
"Okay, T.M.I."
Tim held up his cell phone. "Someone dialed 412."
"From the mud. Idiots."
"Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days? Mud?"
"Fine, story over. I'm done."
"Raj, Rajish, Roger, my main man. Come on. We're just kiddin'."
"You can't tell us your lady is a pig and expect us to be completely serious about it," said Michelle,
laying her hand on Roger's.
"Yeah. So there's the mud, and the rooting, and the grunting. Anything else?"
"She pull some farmer out of a burning house?"
"Well, you know how I never stayed over her place?
"Never even saw it if I remember correctly."
"That's right. I finally saw it when I helped her move. It was a pit. I thought it was just because she was
packing and tossing things aside. But now, we've been living together for 3 months and she hasn't finished unpacking."
"So, you got boxes everywhere?"
"Not even. She just emptied the boxes on the floor and now her stuff is everywhere."
"Maybe it's like marking her territory?"
"Maybe."
Roger said goodnight to Michelle and Tim, poured himself into a cab and directed the driver on the route to take
him home. Sinking into the vinyl seat of the Lincoln continental, he felt slightly ashamed for betraying the personal
habits of his fiancée. There was a trust that one keeps with their partner. Odd habits remain odd habits
but are not subject of discussion. But weren't her habits a bit off, stranger than most? Roger needed the insight
and objectivity of his friends to assure him he wasn't crazy. His fiancée is a pig. His impending marriage
might be in jeopardy.
The cab pulled up to his apartment in Brooklyn Heights, he paid the fare and gave a generous tip to the cabbie
for not talking to him on the ride home. There was a light on in the garden apartment but his apartment on the
first floor appeared dark. He looked at the building for a while, got his game face on, and entered. There was
a light coming from the kitchen-the soft glow of the refrigerator. The apartment was silent except for the occasional
sob and sniff of Jes. He closed the door, locked it, put down his bag and coat and went to the kitchen. Just as
he was about to ask, "What is it?" the words choked in his mouth. There she was, his fiancée,
sitting on the cold tile floor of the kitchen in her panties and facemask, cradling an open package of bacon to
her breast and trying to get it to suckle from her teat.
All Roger could think, as he looked pityingly on her from the doorway was: Bacon becomes her, in the soft refrigerator
light in the dead of night. Bacon becomes her.
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