*This was part of a for-fun exercise at a writers’ retreat in the mountains of Asheville, NC. It was inspired by that one person most of us probably know, or have known at one time or another.


He said, “When I make love, I am making love to God.”

Sylvia knew Olvin too well to think he was anything but serious. She said, “Oh?”

“God,” he said. “You do know the universe and the air and the grasshoppers are all in you, and in me? And so when my life force — which is not what you think it is, I see you making that face. Anyway, my life force — which is the energy I use to thrust and plunge, is what I mean — my life force radiates from my body, my skin sack. Which is not what you think it is…”

Sylvia rolled the avocado under her palm, side to side, side to side. She used to show interest by asking questions when he got this way. If she were to show that kind of interest now, she would wait for him to take a breath and say, maybe, “Can you tell me what color you think your life force is?” Or something equally searching. She had tried that kind of thing in the past – four or five times, maybe more – just to become part of the conversation, but he’d told her the last time she tried that he found her questions distracting, that they deflated his energy-aura. That her interjected thoughts were like holes in his ozone. So she’d stopped.

“…and, take that avocado, for instance. I would physically — not metaphorically, mind you — make love to that avocado. Because you are that avoc…”

She tried not to blink more than twenty times in a minute. Her blinking had once had him speaking in loops and zags while he stared at her, his eyelids matching hers blink for blink. She’d started laughing, and he’d left for two days.

She never did find out where he went. While she was away at work, he’d stopped by the house and left a note taped to the door that read, “You are not always good for me.” He’d returned that Wednesday with a hug and a smile and refused to talk about it.

He was now watching her roll the avocado, so she stopped, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, so she wouldn’t interrupt his thoughts. Maybe, if she waited long enough, he would volunteer the color of his life force.

“…how, now that I have it open, the shape is rather like you, like yours, so if I…”

She watched him, and she wondered about things like skin-sacks (which she understood to mean, in his language, the sack used to lug around their guts and souls). She watched him lick the avocado and did not feel one bit aroused by the love he was sharing — or meaning to share — with her in this way that was all his own.

“You are God, too,” he said to her, but while running a thumb over the avocado pit, his eyes closed and his breathing getting heavy. She’d seen this kind of thing done in movies, the licking and caressing of vulva-like fruits and vegetables, but he wasn’t trying to be seductive, not like that. He truly believed she could feel his tongue, his finger.

“What does it feel like to make love to God?” she wanted to ask, so much that she had to cover her mouth.

She held onto it until after he came, and when he answered, his fingers brushing back his hair, he said, “Like anything else.”


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About Kris Tsetsi

Kristen J. Tsetsi is the author of the novels "Pretty Much True..." and "The Year of Dan Palace" and the short fiction collection "20 Short Stories," all published under the name Chris Jane. Website: http://kristenjtsetsi.com