Sycophant by Bader Shehab

There was that single playing on the Homepod you said it was a hit in the eighties even though we are both children of the nineties. You spent a hundred-dollars of our money, most of it is my hard-earned, on a ‘best hits’ record of 80s various artists. You grew out a ‘fuck off’ handlebar moustache and dressed in hot pink shirts, it made me laugh if anything… The hairspray mullet, thick Ray-Bans, skinny Levis jeans and your lanky physique; let’s just say it stood out very, very well. Then you sold your old KIA for a 1980 Trans Am. You surprised me on my birthday pulling up in the muscle car while blasting Bon Jovi – here, I knew you lost it! And it was all because of that one time I might have said: “I find the eighties interesting…” 

But, it was your stringing and weaving together of words, the poetry and prose of your natural speech pattern. Like honey dripping off of silk; if that ever happens. Your words draw and fantasize it. When the Freddie Mercury/George Michaels/Dale Earnhardt act is dropped, your true sweet innocent self emerges. The misleading touches of your hardened palms, the irregular bumps and dead skin on them itch my thighs and breasts. Your 5 AM stubble flanking your almost fake looking moustache – I laugh at it every now and then. Your looks of questioning and angst because of my seemingly unappreciative laugh – make me laugh even more. The half empty bottle of booze is not helping either as we end the night sunken in one another’s arms. You never failed to entertain, almost always scripting a new mashup episode of Full House and Miami Vice. Even my friends wowed at your antics, I was never bored so I’ll give you that.

I wish I had given you the same, I just… I just didn’t know you. You knew exactly what I liked from the cellular of details and you worshipped my body every night like a goddess in a Mayan dynasty. You hid behind so many acts, dresses and props. The only time you were vulnerable is when we coiled together in a warm huddle… but even then you were asleep like a baby tucked onto my chest. I felt sorry for your tired breaths after all of that acting. But I loved you silly goose, “or should I say flamingo? Since it’s the eighties now, supposedly” I whispered into your ear.

I wasn’t mad or surprised when you walked away that late afternoon. Yeah, at the time I may have prayed that you to get hit by a semi on the highway or get crushed by a pink elephant in the next room. But, I’m ghosting you now. As soon as you first attempted to contact me – I changed all my phone numbers, addresses and e-mails. That’s as good as dead to me. Though that year-long act of yours was entertaining and it will be a noticeable episode in my Facebook timeline and Instagram story highlights. You went through all of that trouble, to be a credit fraud… if anything, I feel sorry for you. I thought this was a real love story; behind all of that charade. You know what, I’ll gladly pay off your stupid car, had you stayed with me we may have gotten married even or hell! I actually for once thought of having kids with someone; going against all my columns of idealogy. This credit I’m paying off now for the next five years is actually a pleasant memory of you, if anything.

Sincerely yours,


P.S. I hate the fucking eighties now…

One thought on “Sycophant by Bader Shehab

Leave a Reply