The Woman Who Took Off Her Pants

The woman who took off her pants is not my wife, though she, my wife, was next to her, the woman who took off her pants. Let me start over.

Longley Reimer Psychiatric Institute has a fourth floor, and on that floor a patient named Denise removed her pants during dinner service. The chicken breast, of course, was dry.

Denise tried to kill herself, as we all do some Sunday mornings—the bloated gray sky rubbing the window outside, insects conspiring with other languages. Most of us say fuck it and go make coffee. Fuck it is a skill, and those who can’t, can’t go on.

The chicken breast was dry, but I am not in the business of judging others. The psychiatrist, who is in the business of judging who is sane, granted my wife her sanity. Her scars are invisible, on a train somewhere to San Jose.

That I am now at the Longley Reimer Psychiatric Institute on “observational hold” leads me to believe in amateur pornography. I took Denise by the hand and walked, pants around our ankles, down the hallway to her room.

I have a scar down the middle of my brain. The right side will never be correct; the left side forever left there, on the tracks, where beautiful angels bleed every day.

Jimmy Chen works at a large institution where he enjoys writing. He lives in San Francisco with his wife and can be found online at jimmychenchen.com.