Mannequin Envy: Models of Salvation Come in All Sizes

If I could freeze you in a sideways dimension, you'd be a mannequin. No longer would I suffer from a sense of vertigo at losing you down elevator shafts, up escalators during a mad rush at a Macy's bargain. There would be no sex and false afterglow, when one of us might have a change of heart. After waking up, I could count on your durability—you'd still be sitting on the living room sofa where I placed you last night. You might resemble a Valeria Lukyanova or a Myrna Loy, smooth face stuck in a half-tilt, a body that is all-ghost, the best of the clones staring out from rain-streaked windows. I could place you across from me at the breakfast table and we wouldn't have to say a word. In the eggshell-thin silence, in your blue stony eyes that do not reflect, I'd convince myself that you'd still need me, that you're no longer that forgetful someone, facing away from mirrors, who once caused me to crack.