Altoid Exemption

Bleached Animal Bone
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

At last, mint's flavor and my taste buds have signed an MOU. And they've done so without lecherous divorce lawyers, TV Guides, or child custody battles. All it took was joint public admission that the union was doomed from the start. And a couple of restraining orders. Binding gestures of sincerity rank high on history's endangered species list, so one hundred fifty feet and a notary seal seemed the least they could do. Think of it as legality's way of crossing its Ts and eyes.

What's most remarkable is not the beauty of embossing for authenticity's sake. The miracle is that the rapport between my taste buds and mint has never been better. Maybe all the talking was getting in the way. Maybe their shared disgust has made room in the closet for a jester's hat. Maybe this explains why, for the first time in their lives, the two can dismount from their respective I-know-everything hobbyhorses long enough to apply sunscreen and take a leak. If only figuratively.

It's much like a pair of virgins at confession, trying to communicate without words or saliva phonics. Trying to make the other understand while staving off god's rumored wrath. I guess mint flavoring and my mouth have simply come to terms with the fact that they are ill-suited tango partners. And in a high five nod of homage to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, my mouth is progressing real silk-like down grief's canal. It's like witnessing my own birth through a haze of relief, thanks largely to wise earth mother opting for drugs over a wading pool.

And while I bask in the amber glow of placenta and acceptance, I hear mint is languishing in despair. But like anything else, despair has its perks. What with the loss of appetite and the newfound fatalism, mint'll be the envy of legions of V70 driving I-married-him-for-his-money WASP soccer moms. Don't believe me? Then I suggest you write it down. Mint'll be able to squeeze into that size 2 dress before you can say Bulimia three times fast. It's not that I'm trying to paint kittens or rainbows or Elvis on velvet here. Nor am I questioning your capacity for fast-speak. It was, after all, vicarious eavesdrop living that taught me about loss and grief as emotional Shop-Vacs. But Mint will pull through. Mint's a fighter and sooner or later, the anguish will be replaced by something more palatable.

And you never know, maybe the black hole will be patched by someone who actually likes the way Mint makes their mouth taste. Or by someone who never tires of playing pretend. Or maybe Mint'll just throw in the towel, the towel ring, and a bar of soap and agree never to eat lamb again.