I whistled through my left nipple at a woman who was leaning on a rake, smoking a cigarette.
My teeth are as white and moist as chicken roe. You heard me.
I smiled at her, the teeth sparkling like the insides of an autistic medicine man.
What are you whistling at, honey? she said.
You're as big as a grocery store holiday ham display, I said.
I was hungry. She made me that way.
You are making me hungry, I said.
Your teeth, she said, are whiter than saint's thighs!
I responded to her compliment with another whistle, though this time using my right nipple.
Those are two of the whistlingest nipples I ever heard, she said.
Thank you, I said. I had my nipples replaced with whistles long ago.
All this to mock vanity, she said.
I whistled again, using both, their echo to make a patchwork of manic intention.