asks.
How can you be so sure?
Well, what about this?
I say. I roll over on my hip and point to a dimple in my thigh.
That?
he asks, surprised.
That is pure joy. That is innocence. It’s a baby’s smile. What could make me happier?
He caresses it as if it’s something to be treasured.
OK, then, this.
I grasp the left side of my chest in my palm and nudge it upward to show him. The left side is smaller than the right, lopsided. There is no beauty in that.
He laughs.
Oh, you think you’re clever,
he says.
You think because I am a guy, I won’t love all of you. Well, let me tell you a story.
I roll my eyes. Somehow, my stunted left breast invited a story. But I listen anyway — that’s the rules of the game.
Once,
he begins,
there was a tiny duckling. His feathers were scraggly, and he never outgrew his newborn fuzz tufts. His beak was nothing to brag about. His siblings, though — now, they were something else.
Stop!
I say, laughing.
You’re telling me “The Ugly Duckling”? You’re actually likening my breast to the ugly duckling?
Oh, you know it?
He seems genuinely surprised.
Of course I do,
I say. But then I wonder, as I do with all things like this, why I’m so sure and where I’ve heard it before. It’s one of those strange things I just know.
Well, then, I’ll have to be more creative,
he says, taking my hand. He can tell my confusion bothers me. Sam is always able to read my thoughts.
Once,
he says, starting yet again,
there was a tiny particle of fungus. Actually, I am not too sure what he was — some molecule or another. He was unpopular and nearly anonymous, as you can tell from the fact that I don’t even know his name. We’ll call him Louis.
Louis? Why Louis?
The name suits him. Stop interrupting me.
I roll my eyes.
So, Lou just carries on for many years — centuries, really, like most bacteria and molecules and scientific stuff do, until one day, someone discovers him. Lou isn’t thrilled, because he’s come to like his anonymity. He’s comfortable. He has a niche. No one pays much attention to him, but that’s OK with him. So then someone discovers him, and he’s all hot and bothered. Not to mention, he has a
serious
inferiority complex.
Sam nudges my leftie, and I giggle.
So when he’s almost totally given up on himself and settled entirely for this life of nothingness, he’s all of a sudden plucked out of nowhere. He’s prodded, he’s experimented with, he’s basically lavished with attention, and he doesn’t necessarily like it at first. But then . . . something special happens.
What happens?
Well, someone takes the time to really study him. To look at him, admire the attributes everyone else ignored. A little time goes by, and magic happens. Lou and his little fungus friends become
. . . He pauses, watching my face.
Yes, Sam?
I say to encourage him. He’s all about the drama of the storytelling.
They become penicillin.
What?
I am incredulous.
That’s ridiculous,
I say.
You’re not even using the correct terminology.
You’re missing the point. Anonymous, lonely, undervalued Louis becomes penicillin.
So you’re saying my left breast is an antibiotic.
I’m saying it is capable of big things.
You’re ridiculous,
I say again. Then he’s on me, all over me, kissing and tickling until I’m yowling and laughing so hard I almost pee and I’m begging him to stop. There’s a warm glow surrounding us that I want to hold on to. And Sam’s feeling well, and when he’s well, his energy transfers right over to me and makes it impossible to think anything’s bad. I want to have this silly, smart boy forever, but moments like these are so few now. I need these moments back, and just one, having just one every now and then makes me think I can have them all back again, every day. Sam helps me forget the library. He helps me forget what it is I wanted to discover. Most of all, he helps me forget that I’ve already forgotten so much, way too
How can you be so sure?
Well, what about this?
I say. I roll over on my hip and point to a dimple in my thigh.
That?
he asks, surprised.
That is pure joy. That is innocence. It’s a baby’s smile. What could make me happier?
He caresses it as if it’s something to be treasured.
OK, then, this.
I grasp the left side of my chest in my palm and nudge it upward to show him. The left side is smaller than the right, lopsided. There is no beauty in that.
He laughs.
Oh, you think you’re clever,
he says.
You think because I am a guy, I won’t love all of you. Well, let me tell you a story.
I roll my eyes. Somehow, my stunted left breast invited a story. But I listen anyway — that’s the rules of the game.
Once,
he begins,
there was a tiny duckling. His feathers were scraggly, and he never outgrew his newborn fuzz tufts. His beak was nothing to brag about. His siblings, though — now, they were something else.
Stop!
I say, laughing.
You’re telling me “The Ugly Duckling”? You’re actually likening my breast to the ugly duckling?
Oh, you know it?
He seems genuinely surprised.
Of course I do,
I say. But then I wonder, as I do with all things like this, why I’m so sure and where I’ve heard it before. It’s one of those strange things I just know.
Well, then, I’ll have to be more creative,
he says, taking my hand. He can tell my confusion bothers me. Sam is always able to read my thoughts.
Once,
he says, starting yet again,
there was a tiny particle of fungus. Actually, I am not too sure what he was — some molecule or another. He was unpopular and nearly anonymous, as you can tell from the fact that I don’t even know his name. We’ll call him Louis.
Louis? Why Louis?
The name suits him. Stop interrupting me.
I roll my eyes.
So, Lou just carries on for many years — centuries, really, like most bacteria and molecules and scientific stuff do, until one day, someone discovers him. Lou isn’t thrilled, because he’s come to like his anonymity. He’s comfortable. He has a niche. No one pays much attention to him, but that’s OK with him. So then someone discovers him, and he’s all hot and bothered. Not to mention, he has a
serious
inferiority complex.
Sam nudges my leftie, and I giggle.
So when he’s almost totally given up on himself and settled entirely for this life of nothingness, he’s all of a sudden plucked out of nowhere. He’s prodded, he’s experimented with, he’s basically lavished with attention, and he doesn’t necessarily like it at first. But then . . . something special happens.
What happens?
Well, someone takes the time to really study him. To look at him, admire the attributes everyone else ignored. A little time goes by, and magic happens. Lou and his little fungus friends become
. . . He pauses, watching my face.
Yes, Sam?
I say to encourage him. He’s all about the drama of the storytelling.
They become penicillin.
What?
I am incredulous.
That’s ridiculous,
I say.
You’re not even using the correct terminology.
You’re missing the point. Anonymous, lonely, undervalued Louis becomes penicillin.
So you’re saying my left breast is an antibiotic.
I’m saying it is capable of big things.
You’re ridiculous,
I say again. Then he’s on me, all over me, kissing and tickling until I’m yowling and laughing so hard I almost pee and I’m begging him to stop. There’s a warm glow surrounding us that I want to hold on to. And Sam’s feeling well, and when he’s well, his energy transfers right over to me and makes it impossible to think anything’s bad. I want to have this silly, smart boy forever, but moments like these are so few now. I need these moments back, and just one, having just one every now and then makes me think I can have them all back again, every day. Sam helps me forget the library. He helps me forget what it is I wanted to discover. Most of all, he helps me forget that I’ve already forgotten so much, way too
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