Agnes - A Love Story
By Kenton Hall
To this day, I’m not sure what first attracted me to Agnes. It wasn’t her name, pinned to her lapel like a laminated corsage. This conjured up images of wizened old nuns, rapping knuckles with rulers in some faint and unrealistic hope that the swelling might discourage masturbation.
It certainly wasn’t her face, which was, frankly, lop-sided. Her skin might be described as milky, perhaps (if the milk in question had been left out in the sun over a long weekend) but then there was the scar. It ran the entire width of her forehead and, in a certain light, resembled Robert Kennedy being savaged by an anteater.
Her body, though, now that was something. I had no idea that medical science had made such advancements in genetic engineering. She was clearly half-weasel and half-kettledrum. One arm was significantly shorter than the other - although, oddly, not always the same arm.
Her legs were shapely, I must admit. Never have I seen such perfect dodecahedrons in nature. And long? They went all the way up, which is far more disconcerting to look at than one might expect. Her stocking-tops showed just under her chins.
She had breasts like melons that had been finely chopped and pureed into a health drink, an arse like two doughnuts going stale in a forgotten briefcase and , when she finally opened her mouth to speak, a voice that sounded like a drowning cat being flung at a blackboard.
Her first words to me, however, took my breath away.
“I’m SOOOO drunk,” she confided.
We celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary this year. I love you Agnes.
To this day, I’m not sure what first attracted me to Agnes. It wasn’t her name, pinned to her lapel like a laminated corsage. This conjured up images of wizened old nuns, rapping knuckles with rulers in some faint and unrealistic hope that the swelling might discourage masturbation.
It certainly wasn’t her face, which was, frankly, lop-sided. Her skin might be described as milky, perhaps (if the milk in question had been left out in the sun over a long weekend) but then there was the scar. It ran the entire width of her forehead and, in a certain light, resembled Robert Kennedy being savaged by an anteater.
Her body, though, now that was something. I had no idea that medical science had made such advancements in genetic engineering. She was clearly half-weasel and half-kettledrum. One arm was significantly shorter than the other - although, oddly, not always the same arm.
Her legs were shapely, I must admit. Never have I seen such perfect dodecahedrons in nature. And long? They went all the way up, which is far more disconcerting to look at than one might expect. Her stocking-tops showed just under her chins.
She had breasts like melons that had been finely chopped and pureed into a health drink, an arse like two doughnuts going stale in a forgotten briefcase and , when she finally opened her mouth to speak, a voice that sounded like a drowning cat being flung at a blackboard.
Her first words to me, however, took my breath away.
“I’m SOOOO drunk,” she confided.
We celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary this year. I love you Agnes.
posted by Kentonist at 12:53 pm
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