by Matthew Sanborn Smith
Ravi loved girls. Ravi loved bubblewrap. It only seemed right that Ravi would superlove a girl made out of bubblewrap.
He didn't want to sully his woman with used bubblewrap so he bought the new stuff from the pack and ship stores. Big bubbles for the overall form (he used a lot in the bosom area as it was one of his favorites), little bubbles for the details. It took a couple of tries, but he settled on rubber bands to supplement her shape. And, of course, hold her together. Staples had been so bad in so many ways. He woke up three times Monday night to check his scabbed mouth for the first signs of tetanus.
Wednesday night, BubbleRuth was born.
For the first half hour, he drove her down the lonely, unlit back roads of his little town with his hand on her knee, though she didn't really bend very well there. He played his cherished Air Supply mix CD and moved to her thigh.
Back at his pad (and he could say pad because she didn't judge) Ravi tore her clothes off (yes) and fondled her lumpy form, enraptured. He rubbed his body all over hers, did everything with her that he would with a real woman (yes). With the ultimate moment came a passion that made him leave sense behind. He had to have her firmness, squeeze it like it was meant to be squeezed: terminally. He arrived in a cacophony of ruptured flesh, a climax louder than any one moment of Chinese New Year.
The lights came on at the neighbor's house. Ravi leapt in terror and ran to the bathroom, BubbleRuth trailing behind. In mindless fear he tried to flush her mangled form down the toilet, causing a backup that flooded the bathroom and finally brought him back to reality. He sat on the edge of his tub, looked at BubbleRuth's remains, half in, half out of the toilet, and he wept.
Bubblewrap. Girls. The perfect mix? He thought not.
In Ravi's back yard there sits a simple marker: BubbleRuth, September 27th, 2006 - September 27th, 2006.
Ravi never married.