We wrestled until Wonder Woman came in and separated us. I was grateful, because Becky was kicking my ass; my bunny suit was restrictive and I couldn't grapple effectively.
"Stop fighting over me," she said. "Becky, I know I promised I'd go with you, but I only mean about forty-five percent of what I say these days. I can't leave Bunny."
"What do you mean, you can't leave him?" she said. "You've only known him a day."
I said, "She's only known you for an hour, bitch."
Becky tried to assault me again, but Wonder Woman held her steady. I was filled with glee that she wanted to stay, that she felt loyalty, appreciation, and a fondness for what's right.
We made hot chocolate, and I learned that Wonder Woman suffered from all the woes of the common female, except with her, the woes were wonderized. Her biological clock was soon approaching midnight; she thought she'd make a talented mother but fretted that no man was a proper match.
"You could adopt," I said. This did not please her much.
Her hamstrings were showing signs of cellulite, her breasts were beginning to hang, and the wrinkles around her eyes were, I had to agree, screaming "Look at me." "Any plastic surgeon could fix all that one two three," I said, and she cringed at the thought of suction and a scalpel. The new haircut notwithstanding, she feared she was not nearly as pretty as women on billboards. "Who is?" I said. "You don't think I want to be as pretty as women on billboards?"
"But you are pretty, Bunny."
"I am, I know. But I'm also a good deal younger than you, and I've been taking care of my skin for years."
The 600 pills she'd swallowed the day before hadn't yet taken effect. All that week, while
"Doctor," I said. "Wonder Woman is not well."
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I was at work, she moped around the house, took long naps and emptied my kitchen of every piece of food that contained a fat or a sugar.
On Tuesday, I came home and discovered her trying to seduce the Chinese-food deliveryman. She was chasing him round the dining-room table, yelling in a mock Chinese tongue, which I found exceedingly offensive and which frightened the poor young man. I reprimanded her, and she assured me it was only a lapse. But on Thursday, she cornered a willing pizza delivery boy; I stepped through the door just in time to preclude coitus on my washing machine. I couldn't have her corrupting those newly arrived to our shores, or not yet old enough to elect a government official.
Clearly, something had to be done. This midlife crisis was happening a bit soon for her, and our society was worse off for it. Burglars and hoodlums everywhere rejoiced about having one less comic-book hero on the scene. The nightly news portrayed more carnage and mayhem than usual; people were tense, and wide-eyed bums mumbled about The End. Plus, I needed her gone; George had asked me out three times that week, and three times I had to decline so I could care for my affected supergirl.
The day after the incident with the pizza boy, I called my therapist. "Doctor," I said, "Wonder Woman is not well. She's tried liquor, Christ, construction work, a new haircut, sex with a gay man, sex with a lesbian, and six hundred antidepressants. Nothing has worked. I am now what you call desperate. Please prescribe."
He said, "Has she tried sex with a Jewish psychoanalyst?"
"Let's give it a try," I said.
"Bring her in straight away," he said. "I might know the trick."
When we arrived, he instructed me to wait outside. "We'll try another dose of 600 pills, plus some heavy-duty hypnosis. This will take time. Choose a magazine. Order a sandwich."
In a minute, I heard Wonder Woman making the sounds Wonder Woman makes when in the throes of ecstasy.
When she emerged an hour later, she was gleaming anew. Dr. Schwartz was standing behind her with a glob of glaze stuck in his nose hair.
"Bunny," she said, "I am a beautiful, confident woman who needs neither husband nor child to feel fulfillment. I love myself madly. Skinny women are unhealthy. Dr. Schwartz is a handsome man with much virility, and I will visit him weekly."
So that was it. Wonder Woman packed that evening, and we spent one last night together. For the final time, I heard her make the sounds she makes when in the throes of ecstasy.
We both shed tears for our coming estrangement, though I had no idea where she was headed. I felt blessed to have known her.
Things didn't work out with George and me; I was soon between boyfriends again. It wasn't long before the fire and flood came, the horsemen, the slaughter. And sometimes now, alone in the night, not another human being for miles, snug in my bunny suit, I think of Wonder Woman and hope she remembers me. If you ever see her out there in the slick, crime-fighting costume I suggested she wear, bursting with the self-esteem of despots, tell her Bunny — her beloved Bunny — says hello.
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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William Giraldi’s work has appeared recently in Tin House, The Believer, Shenandoah, Missouri Review, Georgia Review, and The New Criterion. He’s fiction editor for AGNI at Boston University, where he teaches writing and literature. |
©2007 William Giraldi and Nerve.com.
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