The Sobriquet

She remained phlegmatic about her sobriquet long after her lover had bestowed it, and then began using it in earnest. But something changed. She noticed first that she was anxious to discuss it when around the table with her girlfriends, and later became horrified at the prospect of its slipping to third parties in public or semi-public moments. She was not a woman prone to obloquy, particularly against her lover, but in almost febrile moments she began to fret that he had drawn her into a miasma of his silly, redolent, refulgent phrases that he thought coruscated their union and she just his style. She didn't know any more. She thought maybe she didn't like her sobriquet. Maybe she hated it.

Exiguous complaints, she countered. And then the frustration would grow until it burst out in fissiparous fragments, and she'd retreat to lying motionless. Unthinking.

In other moments a more psephological mood would emerge, and she'd poll her constant and contradictory thoughts for some majority that might bring solace. Or decision.

Decision. Dissumulation, is all. Dissumulation. He doesn't care, despite his near ubiquitous plaudits. Well nor than does she. It was, she later realized, the codicil that granted her immunity from that death which awaited the other. She was phlegmatic no more.