A Prosthetic Mole

I ordered a prosthetic mole, on ten days’ free trial, from an offer I saw in The Well-Tempered Bridegroom, the only periodical I subscribe to. I tried it on, but it didn't fit my face. For one thing, it made my nose look lopsided. So I moved it to the inside of my thigh, and as fate would have it I got lucky and unlucky again that same night. Trisha, whom I had met at the Oyster Bar, was at first excited by the mole, but when it came off in her hand she immediately lost the bulk of the ardor she had hitherto exhibited and booked a cabin to Pago Pago, which I always thought came about as the result of a calcium deficiency. I've got six days left on the ten-day offer, and I've hung the mole on the wall, right next to the needlepoint of Sacco and Vanzetti that my aunt Shirley left me in her will. And I'm not sending it back until the last minute.

This was originally published in Between C & D.