The Smallest Composite
Kyle Beachy, Feb 19, 2009
Please tell them I say hello. Do this for me. Remind them of the always wind, and the branch that will sway
until it falls. Ask if they agree that five times the mosquitoes means five times the blood in the air. Smile at
them. Remind them. Then say fuck you, from me. Please.
For instance, simply demand it from her. Go in there with imposing posture and flagrant gestures, scream and
yell. Or, alternatively, beg it from her, genuflect and deify her in person, clasping hands and rocking. Or
steal it from her. Commit terror, leverage a terrifying threat. Or cry, win her pity. Or just ask. Politely.
He said, “Because frankly? You’re looking like you want to fuck me.”
“No,” I said. “That’s inaccurate.”
“You’re a faggot.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not a good word.”
“I love my wife,” he said.
“She’s beautiful,” I said. “Honestly, I’d like to fuck her.”
An hour later, we had this exact conversation over again.
The Groom smiled (anxious) and The Bride winked (overjoyed), the Minister asked and they agreed, kissed, and
celebrated. He would die six years later (sad, though not tragic). She would remarry (lonely), a man who smelled
and tasted, she finally decided, stale. But who also did not die, for which feat she loved him dearly.
Kyle Beachy’s debut novel, The Slide, was released earlier this year by The Dial Press. He teaches at
The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and his short work has appeared in Otium, THE2NDHAND, and as a
featherproof Mini-Book. kylebeachy.com