“Cosa, I say this as your therapist and friend: Bolivia is the worst thing you can do for yourself and your marriage.”

Cosa bit her lip, her eyes watering excitedly behind thick-rimmed glasses. Her fingers tugged on a lock of mouse-brown hair, sticking the prickly split-ends into the corner of her mouth. She twitched and looked up into Dr. Tammy’s imploring blue eyes.

“Look, alright. I just know he’s cheating on me. But it bugs me that he won’t admit it – even if his aloof smugness divulges all,” Cosa said, her gnawed fingernails grabbing at the suede chaise longue.   “Does he think I have a hole in my head that I’d miss all the signs?” She poked a finger emphatically at her scalp. “That slippery salamander, he brushes by me, looking at me – with that phlegmatic face of his – and not mentioning a word about the penetrating conversations he and his prim, fire-headed teaching assistant have late into the night!” She violently shook a fist at the ceiling, nearly falling out of her seat.

            After a pause, Dr. Tammy looked up from the yellow notepad she had been busily scribbling on as Cosa raged. Her patient’s head jerked from side to side, trying to read what Dr. Tammy had written down. With a glossy-lipped smile, the therapist shifted the papers out of sight.

“And how does that make you feel, Cosa?” said Dr. Tammy in a sugar-sweet voice.

“Right, how do I feel about my husband cheating on me with some slut puppy. I feel as if some anthropomorphic creep is making pig-faces at me through the subway window as the train pulls away. I feel like Maurice is the lousiest lout around. I feel almost as upset as I did when my dad left me and my mom in New York when I was six to be with some banana-haired bimbo in Chattanooga.”

Dr. Tammy pressed her lips together smugly, seemingly pleased at Cosa’s deep-seated Daddy distress. She reached across the office and softly patted Cosa’s knee.

“It sounds like this is less about Maurice and more about your feeling abandoned by your–”

 “Because he smells like eggs! Eggs smell like sin, it says so in the Bible. Hell smells like sulphur. I’m not saying I’m Catholic like my mother, but I think the Bible’s got it right when it comes to some things like the way guilt smells.”

Dr. Tammy shifted in her seat, annoyed. Some patients were more difficult to funnel into Freud than others.

“Cosa, I wonder, what hard evidence do you have that your husband is having an affair with his T.A.?”

 “All my senses inform me! The smell, the guilt oozing from his pores! He thinks he can run around with that smirk and I’ll just quietly stick around! The university wants to send me to the Amazon rainforest to live with Mostufa natives – and guess what, TamTam – I’m going! And while I’m off completing ground-breaking anthropological field research, methinks Mr. Maurice Cooch might get a little bored with just the bathroom mirror to give those smarmy looks to. We’ll see how he feels when he has only an empty bed to send to therapy with those self-satisfied glances!”

Finished, Cosa shot Dr. Tammy a wild-eyed glare before her hands snapped up the leather briefcase leaning against her sofa. She declared, clenching the bag, a victorious “Ha!” and walked out of the University of New Mexico’s Counseling Center, into the blazing May sun, certain that she’d won some important match.

            On the flight to La Paz, Cosa writhed about in her seat, trying to find a tolerable position for the seven-hour flight. The neck-arch was too high and bent the top of her head forward awkwardly. Cosa growled at the blue and purple abstractions printed on the chair in front of her. Slumping down below the headrest, Cosa pressed her cheek against the faded seat fabric to look at her row-mates. A quietly humming old woman in colorful indigenous attire sat immediately to her right. From her flamboyant embroidered dress and pronounced cheekbones, Cosa surmised that the woman was Peruvian. Craning her neck past the old woman who appeared to be singing herself to sleep, Cosa caught sight of a reclining blond man. He wore a sky-blue Lacoste shirt under a satin neck pillow. A plaid eye mask fit snugly over his Bose noise-canceling headphones. Though his posture suggested slumber, a deep crease between his half-hidden yellow eyebrows and twisted scowl upon his lips asserted his alert anxiety. Cosa reached over the Peruvian hummer and poked him in the ribs.

“Pst,” she hissed.

The blond man started and lifted a corner of his eye mask to stink-eye whoever had disrupted his contemplations.

“Hello, fellow American! Looks like it’s going to be a long flight!” Cosa said loudly, intending to neutralize the noise-canceling effects of the headphones with sheer volume. She leaned forward across her knees to get a better look at her compatriot. The vertical lines between his eyes deepened and the corners of his mouth curved downward with disdain. The man looked young and handsome, but gravely unhappy with the tangle of brown hair protruding from the aisle seat. He shook his head from side to side with emphatic stiltedness. Cosa cocked her head to the side and shoved her glasses up her nose, eyebrows lifted expectantly. The man continued to stare back from his reclined position.

“Well, I am just so sorry I can’t be a ketchup-headed twerp for you!” Cosa finally yelled, certain she had adduced the bias behind his passive impudence. The man’s expression remained annoyed as he shrugged, pulled down his eye mask, and shifted to face the window.

 Startled awake by the shouting, the Peruvian woman had turned to stare at squirming Cosa. Attempting once again to achieve a degree of comfort in the over-sized seat, Cosa wriggled lower and lower in the chair. As she nearly thrashed herself to the floor, Cosa glanced up into the Peruvian’s bewildered black eyes. Already agitated by the offensive insolence of the blond man and her stiff seat, Cosa eagerly latched onto the opportunity to alleviate this ancient indigenous woman’s boredom and her own soul’s irritation with some enlightening conversation.

“And you should see the way Maurice bathes! Hours, I say, hours he spends scrubbing off the sin. You see, that’s how I know. It’s positively unholy the way he lathers! I get in the bathroom and the floor’s wet from his overflowing-tub sessions and egg’s in the air and his fingers wrinkle their confessions at me. I shudder to remember. But now I am off, flying high, joining the Mile-High Club with you – Ha! Can you imagine him in that flooded house, missing me, not sure of where the mop is? Heavenly!” Cosa prattled on to the Peruvian woman in a haphazard mix of angst-ridden sign language, Quechua and English. To strengthen her argument against the woman’s disbelieving stare, Cosa reeled off her list of Maurice’s suspected affairs – names, birthdates, and approximate weights of women from both the Anthropology and English departments at UNM. The little black-eyed woman scrunched her forehead and, before drifting to sleep, said something in Quechua that Cosa’s limited study of indigenous languages translated roughly as “Well, that uni-brow probably isn’t helping.” Later, at the La Paz airport, Cosa thought about picking up some tweezers, but figured it was probably her Quechua, not her countenance, that was off.

Stepping out of the airport, the dry city air whipped heat against her face. Cosa peered into the faces of the various tour guides and taxi drivers waiting for passengers. As she looked for a Bolivian tour guide who could drive her into the Amazon, a young boy wheeled a cart hung with handicrafts and dried goods over to her.

“Hi lady. Need stuff?” the tiny black-eyed Bolivian squeaked, the phrase clearly some of the only English he knew.

The local darling charmed Cosa with his candor and she picked up a pink, sinewy item hanging from his cart.

“Turkey jerky?” she asked in Spanish.

“No, no,” the boy said in his native tongue, smiling with relief at Cosa’s Spanish, “dried llama fetus. Do you need some? It’s a fun gift for the whole family.” The boy nodded in earnest.

“I’m not sure I need any, but thank you.” Cosa put back the dried llama fetus, trying not to cringe, and handed the boy a couple American dollars. She picked out a cactus lollipop and waved down an Amazon tour guide with a vehicle that advertised “Experience the Real Amazon with a Real Indian!” The jeep looked sturdy enough to slash through some undergrowth.

            After a few hours driving, Cosa and her straight-faced, indigenous driver were out of the dry city pollution and submerged in thick, squawking jungle. The tour guide she had picked out turned out to be too stoic for her taste, barely giving her any information about Bolivia, the Amazon, or how to solve her marital woes. She tried addressing him in several languages, but he only stared ahead, stroking the steering wheel. After several hours of one-sided multi-lingual chatter, Cosa gave up on the impassive indigenous man and looked out the window. The black jeep creaked along the soggy rainforest floor, its interior weirdly quiet.

 Cosa was relieved when they arrived at their destination, a village of tiny brown huts sandwiched within a narrow clearing. Green light filters down from the canopy above, shrouding the scene in bucolic mystery. The driver dropped Cosa off with two half-naked adolescent Mostufans who emerged from greenery and whizzed back towards La Paz without a word. The young men took her arms warmly and led her to a small thatched hut which their broken English and hand gestures explained would be her home for the next two months. At the door, Cosa winked at one of the teenagers and, using her limited Mostufan vocabulary and embittered gesticulations, explained that her husband was cheating on her and she was in the Amazon to teach him a lesson. The young man nodded sympathetically and pointed to a largish straw-colored edifice at the end of the village.

“Person. Thing. Griot,” he said.

Cosa nodded and wrote the young man’s mysterious statement into her pocket notepad.

            Cosa took her time arranging her research gear and personal items inside her new home. Though made of sodden earth and straw, her little room was immaculate. Clean and well-appointed with sturdy furnishings, the hut even had a view of the rainforest. Cosa peeped out the window into the gloam and saw some fine-looking young people preparing dinner. I don’t care what the sociology and psych department say, she thought, kids really do have their acts together these days. After reviewing some of her research materials within her tiny dwelling, Cosa set off into the evening.

A narrow lane cut through the center of the village. At the end of this path sat the long low dwelling that the young native man had referred to as “person-thing-Griot.” As she walked, Cosa noted that to her left the huts were clean and orderly, like her own. To the other side, however, her right, the little homes were littered with objects. Various shiny trinkets the size of hamsters dangled from strings in each doorway. Stopping momentarily to peer into one of the better-lit abodes on her right, Cosa thought she saw an old woman crouched over something tall and translucent that resembled her pink Nalgene water bottle. The hunch-backed crone cooed lovingly over the object, running her fingers over its surface as if it were the skin of an infant. Cosa copied her observations (“hut, stuff, very thirsty woman?”) into her notebook and proceeded to the Griot hut.

            Two doors lead into the long hut. The door on the left mirrored the tidiness and practical order of the huts Cosa had passed on the left side of the village. The right door resembled a magnified version of the garbage-covered chaos of the right-side huts. Do-dads, knick-knacks, and gewgaws encrusted the doorframe. Grotesque and beautiful objects protruded from the thatching at odd angles, making peculiar patterns that both nauseated and aroused Cosa. Unsure of what to make of the physical bedlam of the right door, Cosa opted for the left and entered.       

“Hey, hey, I’m Griot!” came a jolly voice in the twilit room. Cosa squinted at the back wall of the room where a dark-haired man sat stroking a spoon in one hand and beckoning her with the other. “Hey, hey. It’s Cosa!” he said as she neared the happy figure.

            “Hello, Mr. Griot,” Cosa said with unusual sheepishness as she noticed Griot’s fingers sensually glissading along the length of the silver spoon with a trembling pleasure she thought inappropriate to a first meeting.

“Oh, Cosa. Don’t mind me and the spoon. We’ve been together a while.”

“Er.” Cosa jabbed a matt of brown hair into her mouth.

“Sit down. Let’s see. Do you have a pen and paper?”

            Cosa reached into her pocket and removed a notepad and ball-point pen. She presented them both to the friendly and strange man. Griot placed the notebook in his lap and took the writing utensil between his fingers, all the while sensuously kneading the shining curves of the spoon with his other hand. As he spoke, the non-spooning hand began to scribble on a blank page.

“So, my sweet lady, I’m going to begin to explain Mostufan life to you. You are from the United States, yes? Bolivians say that you Americans love having stuff. Well, you may love having stuff, but here the Mostufans love the stuff itself.”

           Cosa scuffed her Timberland boots together, contemplating this distinction.

“Sorry, Griot, I’m not sure I –”

 Griot cleared his throat and held up the notepad for her to see. With remarkable accuracy, Griot had captured the likeness of a human skull. A human skull with a quarter-sized hole of darkness smack-dab in the top of the milky-white cranium.

“Have you ever experienced an uncanny understanding of something?” Griot asked, peering at her intently.

            “Oh, Griot. Yes,” Cosa said, relaxing into her element. “My husband Maurice and his marinara-haired teaching assistant do terrible things to each other. And – dear Griot – I just know it. He doesn’t say a word, but his face is smeared with egg-scented guilt and my nose can’t stand it.”

            Griot coughed. “Er. I see. But, I meant things. Is there some thing that you have had uncanny understanding of, a physical object.”

“I’ve got a pink Nalgene bottle that I use a lot.”

Griot looked at Cosa. Her watery brown eyes bore back at him from behind monstrous glasses. He began again.

“Let’s change gears. As I understand it, you will be our resident anthropologist for a few months. As I am sure you are aware, in your field, it is not acceptable to interfere with the practices of the culture you are observing, even if rituals seem – to your social-programming – abominable.”

Cosa nodded her head. She had spent years learning how to study other cultures; she didn’t need Griot to tell her to be an objective observer. She poked at her lips with a handful of mousey hair, tempted to chew it, hoping he’d cut to the explanation of his doodle.

“Don’t worry,” she blurted, “I’m not here to bust you.”

            With his trust bolstered, Griot fell into an explanation of the Mostufa culture. The holey skull, he explained, represented the cranial surgery implemented upon all adults in the Mostufa tribe upon their twentieth birthday. This tiny hole released pressure from the brain which in turn intensified sensual perception. With the senses fully engaged, life became a fresh sense-rich experience in which the physical world became intensely vivid and pleasurable. Objects, ugly and beautiful, possessed meaning unimaginable to the hole-less mind. Through this hole a person entered into relationship with her surroundings.

            For hole-free outsiders, the most unnerving result of the surgery was the transformation of personality. Few of the older Mostufans communicated or felt moved to work at all, though a few remained anti-socially productive. For this reason, teenagers, with the help of Griot, ran the community while their elders sat in holy contemplation of the material world.

“But, what, Griot?” Cosa interrupted. “Why are you the anomalous weirdo in this equation? How do you manage to be old, cognizant, articulate, and feeling up that spoon at the same time?”

“Yes, then there is me. I came to be the tribe’s Head by having a botched hole-job when I was 20. A newly trained teen surgeon accidentally missed the mark and placed my hole off-center. So, I am half here and half there; I can go between both worlds,” he said gesturing to the left and right sides of the room with their respective states of order and cluttered chaos.

“As for my English, as you are doubtlessly wondering,” Griot continued.

“I am!” Cosa exclaimed.

“Well, I got this exquisitely textured television set from my Uncle Greevo from Florida in the early 90s along with some rad 80s videos,” Griot went on, gesturing behind Cosa between the front doors. Cosa looked back to see an old TV set wired to a whirring power generator. The faded sides of the television looked worn with wear – as if they’d endured a prolonged rubdown.

 “For a while I was entranced by unraveling the video tape, but once I figured out how to play them in the VCR, I discovered a great new way to engage – what would you call it? – my more intellectual side. While many holed-individuals might not have much affinity for practical pursuits, their mental capacities are dramatically increased. Learning English came easily to me since half my brain still craves non-physical stimulation.”

            Cosa poked the side of her face with a thick bristle of brown hair. “Since I am an anthropologist, not a medical doctor, I’ll agree that your explanation makes at least half-sense. Don’t worry; I intend to be wholly professional during my time here. As long as you don’t mind my documenting your rituals, I intend to keep out of your business. Just keep out of my head. Ha!”

Griot returned her notepad and pen and gently took her pale hand into his withered palm.

“Now, Cosa, let’s go on a walk and talk about this Maurice character.”

            The old brown man and mouse-haired woman meandered down the village’s central path. Griot’s spoon-side seemed to sluggishly follow behind his clean-cut half. As Griot hobbled awkwardly along, Cosa explained her husband’s abhorrent behavior.

 “Oh Griot, the man has tormented me for years. The endless hours and offensive rates spent on therapists with poor insight into my soul add up to enough time and money for me to build you people a treasure trove of kitchen utensils. Sometimes I like to sit in therapy and just stared down TamTam. She’s gotten quite good. Once we had a fifteen minute stare down. She cheated though. She asked me about Maurice, knowing the turmoil, anguish, trepidation I feel over the subject of his infidelity. You will want to remember that. Maurice, my husband, the man I have been relentlessly faithful to – I even waxed his thigh hair once, he likes that you know, smooth upper thighs. When we met he quietly insisted that I removed all of his lower body hair. He says it makes his brain feel good. GOD, I love that.  – and I’ve never even considered cheating on him. Not even with the greasy head of the Anthro department, Andy, who is always flirting with me by asking me to pick up coffee for the office and recommending me for field research in distant countries. Sometimes I just want to strip off all my clothes for Andy and have him find that underneath I am covered in Post-It notes with clever rejection lines like “Meet me at Subway for a Blow-off Sandwich.” Ha! Imagine the mustard color his face would turn! Did I mention that he’s the reason I’m in Bolivia? Andy got me the post, the little snuggle bug. My husband Maurice is probably ripping his skin off now that I’m gone. Oh, that’s right – I was telling you about Maurice’s great career as a philanderer. Well, listen. Every Thursday night he stays up past TEN PM talking to his rotten-cherry-haired TA, Veronica. Apparently they have to ‘keep each other up-to-date on their students’ progress.’ Little chance of that happening if you can’t even keep your pants up, Maurice! And you should see the bold way he faces me every morning. Like I can’t smell the egg-scent of his sin! I’ll see if I can get a picture of him so you can smell it, too.”

            As they strolled on, Cosa became increasingly agitated, her arms making terrific swoops through the air as she brandished the sin list she had compiled on the La Paz plane a few days earlier. After some time had passed, Griot composedly inquired into the nature of the physical evidence against her husband, apparently unconvinced by the fact of the list’s existence alone. The disbelief in his tone threw Cosa off. As her emotions reared in the horror of contradiction, she stepped away from Griot, toppling over a haggardly old woman who crouched above an electric pink water bottle. Her momentum building, Cosa fell head-long with great force toward a junk-bedecked hut, the top of her cranium heading straight for protruding corkscrew.

*     *     *

            Maurice went to meet Cosa at the Albuquerque Sunport. A flight attendant wheeled Cosa off the plane, handed the beautiful brunette off to her husband and wordlessly left the twosome together. Maurice leaned in to kiss Cosa, but stopped as he noticed her striking appearance. Her glasses were off, revealing the delicate slope of her nose and luxuriously long eyelashes. For the first time since they’d met, her brown hair appeared soft and unbroken, as if she’d stopped chewing it. He lovingly stroked her face, her red lips already curled in peaceful ecstasy. His hand ran up her creamy white neck, along her ear, and through her voluminous mahogany locks. As his fingers reached the top of her scalp, they ran against a small circle of brown felt, almost invisibly attached to her head. Maurice sighed wistfully, remembering the university’s call about her accident and early homecoming, and firmly pulled Cosa’s smiling lips to his. He hadn’t noticed the spoon upon which her fingertips sensually slid.

            As the weeks passed, Cosa gradually became more of a person, though never the wild-haired woman he had known. She rarely spoke except for when she wanted him to bring her something, and even then her sentences were clipped like a mongrel dog’s tail. She languished against the satin sheets of their bed for hours every morning before finally going to kitchen, eating whatever finger-foods Maurice had left out, and letting him drive her to work.

At the university, she performed her duties quietly and efficiently. Maurice heard rumors that the head of the Anthropology department, Andy – the same head honcho who had wanted her hysterics shipped to the Amazon for a few months – had developed a devastating infatuation for his smooth-haired wife. Meanwhile, Cosa continued to compile write-ups on her brief study of the Mostufan tribe, seemingly unaware that the office was endlessly chewing on the latest gossip grizzle of her uncannily composed disposition and startling new beauty. Even across campus in the English department, whispers would float down the hall into Maurice’s office as he attempted to grade essays. The hushed tones slipped into his ears, drenched in innuendos about things getting intimate in the Anthro department. His black hair began thinning faster than usual. How embarrassing, he thought.

He got into the habit of hurtling across campus to the social sciences building whenever such whispers reached him. He climbed three sets of stairs, zeroed in on her office in the Anthro Department. He would burst in on Cosa peacefully stroking her keyboard, smiling and not looking up at the computer screen. She worked well, only occasionally distracted by the thick layer of assorted objects strewn across her desk. When he entered, she would look up briefly and then return to her deliberate interaction with the keyboard. Post-it notes from Andy littered the peripheries of her office; some did seem erotically suggestive to Maurice.

At the end of each day, Maurice waited by her office door and they drove wordlessly home, her plump wet lips mashing together as she massaged the grey passenger seat.

            Maurice couldn’t handle it. At first he was thrilled to find his wife complaisant and beautiful, but after a month had passed, he was a sexually unhinged man who could hardly stand her coolness. He propositioned her nightly only to be ignored as she joyously fondled the bed sheets.

            One evening, Maurice stayed late in the office. He blinked down at a pile of ungraded undergrad essays, elbows planted on either side of the papers, his fingers massaging a lavender-scented relaxation cream into his temples, right foot bent underneath him, left foot twitching erratically on the floor, eyes transfixed by a bottle of sedatives placed seductively upon the stack of unmarked Hamlet analyses. As his trembling fingers encircled the bottle cap, about to give it an affectionate twist, Veronica’s ruby head poked through the door.

            “Dr. Cooch! Ready to talk about those Hamlet papers?”

            Veronica leaned her head farther into the office from the hall, waiting for a response. Her long red hair cascaded in dark waves from her wide pale face.

            “Do you want me to grab some coffee before we meet, Boss? You look tired or something.”

            Maurice continued to study the label of the pill bottle.

            “What time is it, Veronica?” he said, his eyes still trying to pierce through the white plastic, envision the gleaming red capsules within.

            “9:30, Boss. Do you need to get home? I know your wife sometimes gives you grief for staying out too late.”

            Maurice released a guttural groan, leaning into the desk, placing his forehead on top of the sedative bottle.

            “Are you alright, Boss. Er, Dr. Cooch? Is this about Angelica’s paper? I talked to her about the use of profanity in analytic essays, but I’m afraid she didn’t feel like she could properly express herself without it. She says Hamlet would commend her authenticity and that she can’t help it if Gertrude is an effing bitch – and that’s the vanilla version of her language.”

            Veronica giggled. Maurice looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, a mat of thin black hair flattened against his forehead. He planted his hands on the desk, arching his palm tensely, as if about to pounce.

            “Veronica,” Maurice growled, his voice crackling with primordial energy, like the groan of a beast emerging full-grown from the constraints of its mother’s oozing womb. “I need you to do something. Come in and close the door.”

            “Dr. Cooch. You know, you actually look very tired. Maybe you should go home to Mrs. Cooch and get some rest and we can meet tomorrow. In the afternoon. My boyfriend, Tyler, might want to come by,” Veronica said quietly, shutting the door so only a gap the width of her face remained.

            “No. Now. I need it now. I can’t wait any longer.” Maurice leaped to his feet, rounding the desk and launching himself at her with animal agility.

            “Maurice! Your wife is at home missing you – we can’t do this!” Veronica stepped back into the hall, trying to close the office door. Maurice bulldozed her efforts and burst into the hall. He grabbed her around the waste, his face mashed between breasts that peeked out hauntingly from a pink v-neck sweater.

            “Mr. Maurice Cooch! You let go of me this instant or I’ll scream,” Veronica shouted, clawing at his greasy comb-over.

            Finally, the grabby professor released the plump waste of his TA. She stepped back, gasping, eyes brimming with tears and determination.

            She prepared to admonish her presumptuous all-hands boss with a righteous diatribe, her arms wrapped across her chest like a shield.

“Professor Cooch! The nerve, the sheer stupidity! I know all about power-tripping authorities like you. But let me tell you something, mister. You are coming nowhere near my bodily temple, especially not when I have these heels that can kick –” She paused when her forearm felt the wetness staining the powder-puff pink fabric upon her bosom. Looking down, she found the well-published professor curled in a fetal ball on the floor, trembling, his forehead balanced on the angled toes of her black stilettos. Veronica knelt beside Maurice. His tear-stained face turned to look up at her.

“She barely notices me, Veronica! I spend hours trying to spruce myself up, make Maurice a sweet-faced darling, become a dashing little accessory for her to keep around – but it’s all to no avail.” Maurice squeezed Veronica’s ankles in his hands, knocking his temples from side to side between her shoes. Tears streamed from his chin and formed a small puddle under the stilettos. This time Veronica allowed his needful hands a grab, eyeing her boss with bewilderment and sympathy.

“You know, Maurice, my mom might still be around. You should talk to her. She usually stays on campus late to finish up paperwork and give me a ride home. Let’s give her a call.” Veronica reached a pudgy porcelain hand down to the wet man below her. With her support and a lot of pit-stops for weepy hugs, the two made it to the UNM Counseling Center.

“Maurice Cooch, is it? Hi there, I’m Dr. Tammy. I hear you’re having a tough night. Is that right? Veronica, honey, it’s okay. I’ll meet you at the car in a few minutes. Could you drop this off at billing on your way out?” said the velvet-voiced therapist, handing her daughter an envelope with Maurice’s name on it. Veronica slipped out the door and quietly closed it behind her.

            Dr. Tammy looked the crumpled man over with a close-lipped smile.

“You know, Maurice, I think I might know your wife.”

Maurice looked down and stuck his lower lip out at the therapist’s alligator heels. Dr. Tammy shifted in her seat so the shoes were hidden behind her desk.

“Did you hear me, Maurice? I said, ‘I know your wife.’ How about that?”

            Maurice’s jaw dropped and his throat released a long, low whine. He fell sideways onto the suede sofa.

            “Why, what’s wrong there, honey? Are you and Mrs. Cooch having some problems at home?”

            Maurice nodded his head, his cheek rubbing against a suede pillow.

            “She’s going to leave me. And I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

            Dr. Tammy nodded in understanding.

            “Aw, that sounds very hard. Have you thought about having an affair? Or going on a long trip? I’ve worked with a lot of couples and it always seems like the best remedy for indifference is to pull away and make the inattentive spouse want it more. Have you tried withholding sex?”

The therapist perked up at this last thought and scribbled something down on a notepad. She read it over, apparently impressed. Maurice stared at her blankly from the couch.

“Oh, don’t mind me! I’m just working on a book about fixing broken couples. It’s actually really perfect that you are here because now I know both sides of the story.” Dr. Tammy looked back down at the paper. “This is great.”

When Maurice finally got home that night, he desired nothing more than a long hot bath. For once, he didn’t want to see Cosa. His eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying all night and his black hair curled to the right in an astounding cowlick. He could never be her prize lover looking like this. A yellow Post-It on the front door brought him to halt.

Maurice,

I found Cosa wandering around the Anthro department tonight. I figured she needed a ride so I went ahead and brought her home. No thanks necessary – It was a complete pleasure. That woman’s a real doll.

See you next week at the faculty meeting.

Dr. Andy

Maurice ripped the note from the door and rushed into the house. Everything was still, totally quiet. He plunged into the bedroom, barely able to see through his puffy eyelids, his breath heaving from him in anger, madness, terror. Andy the office douche bag had picked up his wife. Because he had forgotten her. A soft shape arose under the white sheets. Cosa slept sweetly on the bed, her face against the pillow, a half-smile on her lips. Maurice gently picked up her warm hand and wept into it.

            After watching Cosa sleep – How could she breathe with her smiling face smothered by the pillow like that? – Maurice paced the halls. He ran a hand across his scalp and several threads of black hair came off onto his sticky palm. Stopping by the kitchen, Maurice stuck his arm into the fridge and grabbed three eggs. His feet padded back down the hallway and into the bathroom. He drew a steaming bath. I just need to steep, he thought. Once submerged, Maurice groped over the edge of the tub for his eggs. Just use three eggs for three minutes a day and your balding will come to a halt, a Chinese medicine doctor had whispered to him in a health food store one day when he was shopping for colon cleanser. He gently burst the yellow yolk onto his delicate follicles. He shook the excess slime from his locks and sank down under the water. Steeping in progress, he thought, holding his breath.  

That night, the bath didn’t calm his nerves. Maurice drank a glass of orange juice and sat in Cosa’s messy home office, staring at her books and trinkets. Papers were strewn everywhere along with Christmas ornaments, dog toys, kitchen utensils, and his wife’s assorted water bottle collection. Under some doo-dads, Maurice found a picture from their honeymoon in Brazil. They were on the beach, Cosa looking up at him while pushing her glasses up her nose. He was looking off into the distance, a hand running distractedly through his thick black hair. Maybe he hadn’t always been the most attentive husband, maybe he had never been what she needed. Maurice sighed and sponged at a tear with his sleeve.

As he rifled casually through Cosa’s desk junk, he found Griot’s skull sketch and the notes she had taken that fateful night about the Mostufan tribe. As he carefully read about the surgery and its effects, Maurice hit upon the cause of his wife’s aloof happiness and his own anguish. The hole. He went to their bedroom, watching Cosa’s gentle breath upon the smooth pillow. They would be together, he decided. He would do what was necessary to be the right man for her. He sat down at their computer and bought tickets for the next flight to La Paz.

            A week later, the couple woke up beside one another and wriggled happily against the white satin sheets. Several spoons were nestled between them on the bed. But they still had never felt closer.