four feet of bipedal beauty, she follows a strict diet and is practically skin and bones—minus the skin.
i like to visit my girlfriend after dark.
she’s got prime real estate on lock: a spot across from Central Park, rent controlled since ’74.
she’ll live there for free, forever, lucky girl—but there’s always a catch. her windows are huge and the landlord refuses to install curtains. anyone can look in and see her body bare, laid out for the public.
“and the people of New York City,” she laughs, “love to press their faces against strangers’ glass.”
we met at the museum. i fell in love the moment i laid eyes on her at thirteen years old, though she didn’t see me staring at first.
it took a few trips, forking out petty cash for general admission, before i had the guts to approach her, to whisper her name, to ask for her number.
“hey, Lucy. hi, pretty girl. wanna go out with me sometime?”
she has one of those names that rolls off the tongue, and there’s a funny story behind it. she confesses that she still dreams of the smells and sounds of the lush Ethiopian forests, her home before being whisked away to the States.
her adoptive parents were super into the Beatles, and renamed her after their favorite song.
“but i don’t get the big deal about the Beatles,” she says. “who even cares about John Lemon or whatever his name was?”
her African name is so much more special, but nobody bothers to call her that. she finally told me when we made our love official: Dinkinesh. Amharic for “you are marvelous”. and she is.
Lucy’s a stunning specimen of woman. four feet of bipedal beauty, she follows a strict diet and is practically skin and bones—minus the skin.
“at my age, only focusing on my figure makes my beauty regimen a lot easier.” i insist she’ll never look a day over eighteen. my friends call her a cougar, but what’s a three-million-year age gap when love is love?
i must admit, though, that we’ve reached a bit of an impasse in our relationship.
our honeymoon phase is creeping to an end, and we both feel it.
it’s so awfully quiet where Lucy lives. that’s what happens when you stay someplace as fancy as Spitzer Hall, where even the softest of sound waves would ruin their upscale atmosphere.
they set the rules: constant surveillance, no flash photography, no running, no food. no touching, no kissing, no holding hands, and lights out at 5:30pm.
i hate to say it, but it’s becoming boring. she’s lived a thousand lifetimes, but has yet to experience the splendour of the city beyond her front door. i want her under my palms, but she’s waiting for marriage.
besides, i can’t keep sneaking around this way; reception is getting suspicious of my daily drop-ins, and the tickets drain my pockets.
but i refuse to break up with her. i mean, i just can’t help myself: i love Lucy.
so i’m taking matters into my own hands.
tonight, we’re bringing our relationship to the next level. i’m going over with a hammer in my back pocket, and taking Lucy out on a twenty-first century date.
see, lately, i’ve been hard at work disabling cameras and memorising security guard circuits.
i’ve planned the perfect escape route: sharp left at the Hall of Biodiversity, and duck into the People of the Plains dioramas if watchmen pursue us.
we’ll ferry to Ellis Island and meet Lady Liberty. in Manhattan, i’ll buy my girlfriend a 99-cent New York slice and eat her leftovers, and we’ll giggle as we order street kebabs in Sopranos-mobster accents.
we can stroll through Times Square and have a couples caricature drawn of us, though we’ll have to make a run for it when the artist recognises us from our wanted poster stretched across fifteen thousand square feet of billboards blinking above.
i’ll just bring my girlfriend back to my place—an inner-city shoebox, the last place authorities will think to look. we’ll be fugitives, yes, but we’ll be free.
i’ll take her to my room for some privacy. we’ll share my bed and catch up on eons of pillow talk… and then i’ll pop the question:
Lucy, Lucy, i feel the heat of your love in my bowl-shaped pelvis; you send shivers down my weight-bearing spine, from my flat brow ridge to my front-facing big toes.
i promise my devotion will persist even once we die in each other's arms, and walk hand-in-hand to hominid heaven while our bones turn to dust.
i’ll bend on one bicondylar knee and offer her a ring carved from a mastodon tusk.
Lucy, my angel, i thank god for the day you fell out of that tree and into my lap.
Dinkinesh, baby, will you be mine forever?