Super Momma

You were sitting legs crossed on the floor, with your left elbow on the coffee table, legs underneath, and your chin in palm; your head was aimed not to me, but to your left. I just came in to see if you had seen my Super Mario Brothers’ Cartridge. 

“Do you know where I left my videogame?” 

“It’s over there.” By “over there” you meant to your right; but you didn’t look to your right. Instead, you pointed with your right hand as you continued to look suspiciously into thin air. 

I looked to your right, but there was no Super Mario. Though I wanted Mario or Luigi, even, to jump out at me—to leap out of the cartridge and fly around the trailer, then wing me out of that living room, away from you. 

“Where? I don’t see it.”

 You said nothing as you meticulously lifted your head, lowered your arm, and looked at me. Your tears poured as I silently cried for Super Mario. You’d been saddened by the news that the old man had had an erection and ejaculation that did not involve your vagina, mouth, hand or anus. He’d fucked around on you and you’d be left to raise three boys alone. 

Although nothing was said, it was apparent that as we stared at one another that you and I were both mindful that sex was in the room—cheating too. You knew that I knew that the old man had fucked around on you; and you recognized through the way I stood with a bend in my knees and from the way I spoke, with a squeak in my voice, that I knew what it all meant. At this point in my life none of it was a mystery to me anymore. I knew what you knew—and like me, you didn’t know how to find Super Mario.