Bernard begins to find NaSumExMo burdensome.
Oh, it was fun at first--
from reporters and police.
NaSumExMo seems like a mistake.
His girlfriend, Ashley, does not understand.
"I was talking," she complains.
"I was trying to tell you about something,
and you just keep fucking with that guillotine
and those god damn melons!"
She leaves him.
Her fragrance fades, replaced by the smell of gun oil.
Bernard finds that he has a blemish
on his cheek.
He frowns at it in the mirror, while shaving,
and would turn it if he had not made
this stupid commitment.
"Show me the thing that cannot become a commonplace,"
There are days when there really is no deserving miscreant,
and he goes about his business out of duty
rather than joy.
Why did he think this would be worthwhile,
"Kill me," he begs another participant.
Ennui has left him unhinged.
Ashley finds him, rocking like a defective in an alley,
twirling his hair,
"Come on, Bernie," she coaxes, softly.
She leads him home,
to the old couch with the floral sheet spread over it,
and the cats.
She heats some chicken noodle for him,
as if he were seven years old and
home with a cold.
Later, in bed,
She kisses his chapped, razor-nicked face,
"Sooo...what are we going to say, if they ask you again,
"No..." he replies, eventually, in a vacant monotone.
She kisses him again,
happy to take him back.
"That's right, baby."
And it is.