CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive
Nose
Rachel Sherman


Noses give the father in the girl away. Mothers know the curse of the father and would give that part of her girl away in a minute in the form of a bump. She would give it away so that the girl could be what she was cracked up to be, before her father got mixed in the matter. Some girls, you can see what could have been.
       We’re talking beauty. Deformations, too. Talking thick ankles, hairy lips, hairy arms. We’re talking hairy stomachs, faces. It’s no secret girls can suffer this way, even if the father is a doctor she adores. The father could be the sweetest man with only a few shortcomings (light porn). He brings home the bread in the way that matters, gives it to the mother so that she can make it count.
       This makes not a dent in an awful nose if the nose is awful from the father. If he had real love, he would have saved his features to himself with his trophy of a wife spread out on their silk bed. He would have planned a different intercourse from the get go, would have known some mechanism, especially since he’s a doctor, or at the very least thought pretty thoughts. Had he focused solely on the product that would be a girl and not in the immediate product of this mess, then, perhaps, the girl would have looked like the mother.
       Imagine, then, what could have been, what might have been, for the girl. She would not have to pass the nose down to the daughter the way she will, or explain to all the lovers, begging them just to imagine. They close their eyes when she says this and come, imagining, imagining, a new nose, a different girl, then ultimately, her mother.
       Were I the girl with my mother’s nose, what would my father think? Would he get confused after a long day’s work and give me the bacon? If he gave me the bacon, things might get confusing.
       The father gives away what he doesn’t want back. He sees his nose and hair, the things he’s pulled off with charm, on his daughter and smiles. She is for other boys or for no one. He has already gotten the better version. He made out with a sweet, fine nose of a wife. A wife with the delicate manners to know what to keep from the dinner table. He had chosen her a long time ago, this wife. He knew her when she was a girl, this wife, who keeps to herself his faults by plucking the hair from their daughter. So unlike her daughter—he picked the right one—who has not even begun to begin.