Neoteric.

*

When I walk past the den, Quinn is lipsynching to a song, closing his eyes and acting like a rock star.  The female singer’s intensity puts Quinn’s living room rocker act to shame.  When he notices that I am watching him, he suddenly gets tired.  He stops, sighs, and says, “Ah, my daydream wife.”

The real singer, he means.  I’d only heard a few seconds of the song.  “Who’re you listening to, again?” I ask.

“Bikini Kill.”

I am living with a man who harbors fantasies about riot grrrls.  It could not get any better unless I became a lesbian. (more…)