Mack had a penchant for writing dirty haikus.
Spreading glistening suckle
Inhale then exhale
He enjoyed writing them in public places like the subway most of all, counting out the syllables on his badly bitten fingers until it was a perfect 5-7-5. It made him warmly smug to be counting out something so intimately anatomical among oblivious passengers. If he was lucky enough to get a seat, occasionally he would catch the person to his left or right reading over his shoulder, their eyes bulging. Perhaps they’d become invested and start counting out the syllables too, as if checking an answer to a crossword. “14 Across: The folds of skin bordering the vulva.” La-bi-a. He thought that was an evocative word for a haiku, but if he was honest with himself he just liked the way his mouth remained open after he finished saying the last syllable quietly to himself. It hardly mattered that Mack had never slept with anyone before. “Write what you know” was an old adage he’d heard somewhere, but those haikus would have been pretty dismal.
The fridge is starting to smell
Crumbs in my butter
Nobody wanted to read those, not even the nosiest of subway companions.