Lover Boy

Sara Kaplan-Cunningham

The boy in the box is covered in a thin sheen of shimmering hair. He doesn’t speak any discernible language, but he babbles in a voice like bubbles popping. He’s small enough to hold in the heart of my palm, and if there were no glass, I would do so. The plaque beside his enclosure calls him “Lover Boy” due to his tendency to wear the face of the viewer’s most recent lover. Sure enough, it’s DJ I watch now, dipping his hands in the thimble of water; it’s DJ who curls up in the wood shavings, nuzzles a green rubber ball, and falls asleep.
          DJ left me four months ago. He didn’t like hearing me burp, and I’m a seltzer person. I don’t really want to get into it. Shortly after, I started coming here. Real DJ, unlike Lover Boy DJ, didn’t like when I watched him. He’d say, “Why are you looking at me like that?” and I’d have no reason other than the urge to observe him living his life. But simply by being there, by observing, I was impeding his ability to do so. At least, that’s what he said.
          Lover Boy DJ isn’t smooth down there like a Ken Doll as I’d expected, though, according to his plaque, he doesn’t possess a “proper penis.” Instead, he boasts an “impressive stump.” When he runs in his wheel or swims in his inflatable pool, the stump jiggles like a Jello mound. I find it strangely erotic. At night in my apartment, I stand in the mirror, lifting and dropping my breasts. A hard pain follows each drop, as if I’ve released a sandbag strapped to my chest. But I do it anyways. I like to see the loose skin ripple, the resemblance between my naked body and Lover Boy’s.
          DJ had a surfboard body, long and blunt. His favorite shirt had massive flamingos flanking the shoulders. I picked it out because I knew he’d like it, but the shirt always unsettled me. When he wore it buttoned, his scapula pushed into the birds’ eyes until they dipped below their beaks. The distorted pink heads melted down his back like popsicles left in the sun.
          My time with Lover Boy is almost up for today. Those who come get an allotted 15 minutes with him. I don’t know what other people want with Lover Boy, though I have my suspicions. Last week, the man before me left after only 12 minutes. His shoulders rose and fell as if he were crying, but his eyes were dry. He squeezed a baseball cap between his hands into the shape of a severed tongue. My guess is, he wanted to see the face of someone who died or left him. I didn’t feel too bad; because of him, I got an extra three minutes.
          I come here because I want to see DJ. I know that. His little ears pierced with silver, his tiny, unscrubbed fingernails. I know it’s unhealthy. My therapist tells me so constantly. While DJ and I were together, she worked with me to cultivate deep compassion for him. When DJ stopped me from wearing a low-cut shirt to lunch, he was protective, not controlling. When he became sullen after I smiled at the waiter, he was jealous of my exuberance, not possessive. But after he left me, she turned on him. That’s been hard to stomach.
          Lover Boy DJ is showing signs of waking. He stretches his cherubic arms, tinged a light green. His eyelids flutter, exposing sclera slits like pale horizons. I prefer to come during Lover Boy’s naptime. As he rolls onto his side, he is DJ as I always loved him best: shifting out of a blissful dream. I have less than one minute left. I flicker the light switch in the corner, alerting whoever is next of their impending start time. I zip and button my jeans. Before I leave, I tap tap tap on the glass. Lover Boy DJ opens his eyes.

Sara Kaplan-Cunningham received her MFA in poetry from the University of Houston. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Cincinnati Review, Dialogist, SmokeLong Quarterly, Washington Square Review, and elsewhere. She loves warm brownie sundaes.

Next Up: Five Biographies of Ted Kaczynski by Robert G. Penner