Aggie stared at her reflection in a pool. She rarely saw her face; she had been warned against it.
“Never look in a pool of water,” said Wife-ie. “It’s impossible to see yourself the same again.”
Aggie looked at her slim features, her smooth skin—nothing like Arthur of the North’s wrinkles she had stared at in bed an hour ago.
She sighed . . .?Wrinkles after great sex were lines that hypnotized, that were traced with a lover’s finger and kissed. She had kissed every wrinkle on Arthur of the North’s forehead, neck, and lower bits, and her body was singing with the pleasure of it . . .
She had never kissed before, let alone anything else. She wondered if this was what they did at the nurturing shed, just as she wondered if there would be a next time . . .
Arthur of the North offered to take her back to the nurturing shed. He was a gentleman at heart, and when she told him the door was closed, he, perturbed, looked at the sweet face of Aggie. There were no plans for what would happen after Wife-ie’s burial, apart from—perhaps—celebrating.
He smiled at her. “Why don’t you take over Mother’s post?” he said. “Those library idiots have it in for my son, but you—you could keep them on their toes.” His face lit up. “I could visit, better than that nurturing shed. Sometimes I feel like they’re just going through the motions.”?He traced his finger on her smooth skin. “Not like you.”
Aggie moved into Wife-ie’s room and became the new Wife-ie, her many talents springing to life like a disturbed rattlesnake.
Aggie had many talents; she could memorize a formula at a glance, design like there was no tomorrow, and have a redundant penis as pert as a pubescent bull. She had the vision of a genius, the hand of a prostitute, and the determination of a bull in heat.? She, in her first of many “I’ll think for myself” moments, took the Library’s archaic, out-of-date, long-winded, no-one-can-find-a-thing “filing” and developed two systems: a complex rabbit warren to hide Wife-ie’s memoirs, treaties, and any other secrets from the public, and for the public shelves . . .
Shelves filled with readings, leaflets, and pictures, lit up so anyone could see right away what they were looking for. Shelves full of promise, stories, and recipes that made even the toothless drool.? Aggie understood other people’s secrets like she was born to it, and people like her could read their minds. Whether it was the years spent with Wife-ie, she had no idea, but her brain buzzed like the electric dashboard of the sewage system.
“People need mystery, myths, and knowledge, fake or real,” she said to the Librarian, who was happy to agree with her despite her being a woman.
In her spare time, Aggie practiced Wife-ie’s stretching-and-posing-with-breathing techniques. The “Wife-ie techniques,” as Aggie called them, not only cleanse the innards but keep a woman fresh well past her sell-by date.
The women poo-hooed Wife-ie’s techniques.
“Anything that comes from that old bird’s mouth is dirt fertilizer,” shouted the horselike woman.
No one argued, until, five years down the line, Aggie began to defy age.? James the Strong was the first to notice. He was strutting through the library looking for policies on baby-snatching when he came across Aggie mid-tree pose in the filing room. ?He watched as she bent forward, breathed in, sighed out, and then stretched into a catlike position.? Her face glowed, and for the first time, he could see what it was his father saw in her . . .
He strutted into the small cubbyhole of a room—lit by a candle.?“What is all this then?” he grunted.
“It’s good for trapped wind,” she said.
He stopped. “Wind? A woman has wind?”
“Of course,” she said.
“They told me that was just great sex,” he said.
Aggie moved into a tree pose. She didn’t have the heart to tell him women lied when it came to things in bed.
“Well, I’m not in bed, now am I?” She squeaked a small fart.
James the Strong chuckled.
Aggie caught a look—an Arthur of the North look—and smiled to herself. ? she thought.
As James the Strong, with one puff, blew out her candle.
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