February 5, 2003

Today is the day to sing a Stevie Wonder song.

The journalistic machine that is Claire Zulkey needs your help. Do you know anybody (including yourself) who was married while in college? Details don't matter, as long as they would be willing to be interviewed via email or phone or Instant Messenger. Names and dates may be changed. The survival of the world (if by 'world' you mean an article I'm working on) depends on it. Drop me an email if you can be of assistance. Thank you.

34

"My leetle pork pie, my leetle sweet potato, my leetle flapjack," Sven crooned at Lillibet, darkly folded up on the couch like a Swiss Army knife. She was staring at the telephone with some degree of ferocity. George hadn’t called her in weeks and he didn’t seem to have noticed her attempts. What was wrong with him?

Sven crawled next to Lillibet on the couch, lifted her shirt and blew a raspberry on her stomach. The effort resulted in silence, as Lillibet was so thin that there was no soft belly to make any noise on. Sven, with a thrill, felt like he could feel his lover’s spinal cord through her belly.

Lillibet pushed him away with a strength surprising for a woman as emaciated as herself. Sven was very aroused by this.

"If rough is what you want, rough is what you can have," he said, lunging for her. Lillibet pushed away his approaching face with her bare foot. He fell back on the floor in ecstacy.

Lillibet finally picked up the phone herself.

"Yes?" said George.

"So how goes the search? Have you gotten over your writer’s--"

"I don’t really want to talk to you right now," George interrupted coolly.

"Why?" Lillibet was hurt but a little intrigued. Her given
superiority over George made this a curious turn of events.

"I think you’re deranged."

"Oh, you found out that it was me sending those letters? I thought you were just ignoring me. I did put my name on them and everything."

George was too proud to admit that he had hired a nineteen-year-old private detective to figure it out for him. "Why on earth would you do such a demented, sick thing? Don’t you have better things to do than cut letters out of magazines?"

"I had Sven do it for me. He’ll do anything I want him to." Sven, hearing his name, looked up happily.

"So he’s in on it too? What kind of moron is he?"

"He’s not moronic," said Lillibet, defending herself more than Sven. "He’s even smarter than you."

"Oh right," said George. "That must be why he’s with you. So tell me, Lillibet, what’s the story?"

"I was trying to spark something in you," she replied helplessly. "Some sort of fear or inspiration or something. Did it work? I bet it worked, didn’t it?"

"What are you, like, in love with me or something?"

"You’re in love with that disgusting…that vile…" Sven who had been licking Lillibet’s chin, couldn’t help overhearing.

"George, I—"

"Goodbye, Lillibet." George hung up the phone. He hadn’t felt better about himself in years. Lillibet, meanwhile, hurled the phone to the floor, ignoring Sven’s accusing stare.

"So. You love George, not me?"

"Don’t be stupid, Sven," she snapped. This stung Sven, as he currently was working on a somewhat successful project to bring the process of teleportation to fruition, and despite the money and awards he would win if he did, he was doing it for Lillibet.

"But my little crock pot," he pleaded.

"Oh, shut up, Sven," she said, and strode from the room. Sven the Zen, nearly in tears, retreated to his meditation bench to figure out what he had done wrong.