To all the men I’ve known in my life.

Suitcase man
Tea man
Folded man
Bloating man
Cut man
Halfway man

Suitcase man
When I realised what my husband had brought back on his trip, I was horrified. At first he tried to play it off as an accident. He must have picked up the wrong luggage by mistake, he was in such a hurry. But the suitcase looked nothing like the one he had taken for his business trip. The suitcase man unzipped himself and made himself quite comfortable on the sofa between us whenever we tried to watch a movie together. At night I could hear him shuffling about downstairs, his suitcase on his back like a snail’s shell. He tried to swipe at my ankle, once, when I went to get water. My husband didn’t want to discuss the matter, but I cornered him one day before he could slink out early for another business trip. Behind him, on a ridiculous little pair of wheels, was the suitcase and presumably the man. I was going to tell him it was me or that thing, but instead I asked what he was planning. His intention was to take a trip and return almost immediately. The luggage carousel would be waiting with a new panoply, and he would choose another case. The odds of getting suitcase man again were vanishingly small, he told me. And yet here we are.
Tea man

When I was a young boy, I would dream of the tea fields of Yunnan province. I had seen an old box in an antique furniture store emblazoned with Chinese characters, and I was fascinated with the concept of tea despite finding the actual drink too bitter and astringent for my tastes. In my daydreams and nightdreams, the tea fields would be incredibly tall, the plants more like gangly stalks of corn ending in crisp, dried leaves. The process of making tea wasn’t entirely clear to me. My knowledge of China was also patchy. I imagined the Chinese growing this tea in great gated palaces high in the snow-capped mountains, taking great care to protect their secret crop. In what was to become my last dream of tea, I saw a man standing at the foot of the great gate to these palace-farms. He was dressed in hides and his face was so wrinkled it was impossible to pick out any features. Upon sighting me approach, he reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled out a handful of those crisp, fermented leaves, before blowing them into my face. I awoke smelling of old tea.

Folded man

This guy was the fucking WORST. UGH. EVEN WORSE THAN THE GUY IN THE SUITCASE IF YOU CAN BELIEVE THAT. Sorry for the caps. He just made me so STEAMED. Whenever I got stuck in traffic I knew this sonofabitch was to blame. He’d be standing in the middle of the highway while the pedestrian timer ticked down, doing his stupid folding tricks. He would bend 180 degrees at the waist, and then again at the knees, with his stupid boombox playing the whole time. Once he’d folded himself down, he wouldn’t even do anything special, just lie there like a shitty parcel in a dead mail office. Plus, he’d take an age to unfold himself and by then the lights would have already turned green and we’d be honking at him. If I ever see that FUCKER again, I’m gonna wait til he folds himself then post his ass into a STORM DRAIN. I mean it.

Bloating man

It’s important to follow these instructions precisely to the letter, honey. The bloating man is visiting tonight, as is his right, and we need to perform our duties as gracious hosts. Firstly, ensure another seat at the family table is set. There is no need to prepare additional food. The bloating man will arrive between 10 and 11 pm – don’t sit down to eat until then. He will always interrupt the meal. I don’t know how or why, he just does. Let him in when you hear him knocking, but do not make eye contact. In fact, try not to look at his face entirely. I feel silly writing this, you’re a smart girl, I’m sure you know all of this already, but just in case you forget. Remember how your mother used to do it. Open the door and kind of turn your body away at the same time. There’s a knack to it, but you’ll do great!

P.S. This one is so obvious I feel I shouldn’t even need to write it out. I will, anyway. Remember to buy bleach! More bleach = better!

Cut man

The text was cleanly excised. Not that the pages were removed, but the blackness of every letter had been removed, leaving a filigree of ghostly words. Holding this delicate lace of paper up to a dark background, you begin reading about the cut man – and then the book is on your lap again, and the candle is burning down to it’s stubby wick. You are not a stupid man. You replace the candle and you retire to bed, for now it is the depths of night, and the house is quiet.

Halfway man

Hey You
Over Here!
Wanna Make
Some cash?

What do you mean what’s wrong? I’m right in front of you, aren’t I? See? No funny business, look at my hands. One there. The other there. I’m a honest fella. And you, my friend, are about to get rich.

I-

Huh.

Oh. Alright. It’s not like I wanted to show you anyway. Christ…