“Six Portraits” by Kevin McIlvoy

Six Portraits

A difficulty

“No luck?” my wife said.

“The clear plastic bag is the problem.”

“Hard to do.”

“Impossible.”

“The goldfish,” she said. “A difficulty.”

“Oh,” I said, “I get goldfish, really get them. I can be them, draw them—still—and moving.”

“Fantails?”

“God, yes. All their lives they look middle-aged, muddled.”

“You’re better at drawing the goldfish, then?”

“Better at everything, at everything I try to draw. Except for—”

I shook my head.

She shook hers.

In the slipstream of the sheets, we expectantly undulated.

“Some wine?” she asked.

“A sip. Thanks.”

“Are human mouths still an issue?” she asked.

“And hands. Feet. And noses. I really hate the fuckin’ noses on people.”

She said, “A nose holds it all together.”

“Noses shouldn’t look like that,” I said. “Should they look like that?”