It Doesn't Help To Be Beautiful

I could feel him as he looked right through me
he was reading Locke and asked aloud
"now who was that guy who wrote Oedipe?"

"Francois Marie Arouet" I half-whispered

He thumbed through his shelf looking for the answer
opened one book then another
"I know I have it here somewhere" he said

"His pen name was Voltaire" I murmured
a little softer this time

"Didn't he have a one word name" he asked
"like Madonna or Oddjob"
"Maybe I should call Dave. He'll know"

"They stole his body and threw it in the garbage" I said to no one

"He's not home. I forgot it's Saturday"
He logged on to his laptop
"It's right on the tip of my tongue"

"They never found his brain" I thought to myself

"This is driving me crazy! Why can't I think of his name?"
He was exasperated now
I hated him when he was like this
Why won't he listen to me?

"IT'S FUCKING VOLTAIRE, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!" I screamed and slammed the bathroom door