MARY and BOB and PIE | Gilmore Tamny

Mary’s very funny. Bob’s very regulated. They eat this kind of pie no one’s ever heard of. Once, they served it at brunch, and I walked in on them in the kitchen and Bob had his hand down the front of Mary’s jeans, just like that, casually rummaging around. I never knew what to make of it and it made me feel a bit forlorn, partly because at that moment, there was no one rummaging around the front of my pants, but, also I got the feeling she was tolerating with—no that’s too strong—indulging the rummaging for his sake rather than her own pleasure, and that seemed rather a lonely business for Bob. I wondered if her pants often as a touchstone of sorts. Is that how married people are? It’s hard to say from my vantage point. I’ve had affairs and lovers, sure, but haven’t had a person there, solid, immobile, in my life, like a boiler or a golem or Stonehenge dolomite thingy, as is possible. Bob stands holding a beer from another country, looking bland, handsome, un-unhappy, blazered, distinguished. The other guests are going into peals of laughter over something Mary said, as they often are. He seems unmoved, but perhaps he’s just inured. I want to ask him what it’s like to live with such a charming person, but perhaps I already know: you want to put your hand down their pants at odd moments, in the stillness of a late morning’s brunch or as you lean back in a closet as you find your coats after a party. I thought I witnessed this anyway, at Cheryl and Tim’s.
You think I’m strange for noticing? I say you are far, far stranger for not.


Gilmore Tamny lives in Somerville where she spends much of her time drawing, writing and playing guitar. Her novel My Days with Millicent is being serialized on-line at OhioEdit tamny/”

Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, prose, reviews, and interviews from marginalized creators.