Though Taylor never imagined Tom\u00e1\u0161 cheating on her, she could have. Her perceptibility was in no way lacking. The signs, however vague, were there. Tom\u00e1\u0161 was a Swiss train and he would arrive at their \u017di\u017ekov apartment disheveled after his walk from Prague\u2019s old town, with his shirt unbuttoned and untucked and his beard bisected by a disjointed wave, at precisely 7:30 each night until his lapses compounded into regularity. His breakfast routine of boiling water for oatmeal, crafting espresso in a Moka pot, and performing wild misinterpretations of aerobic exercise in the spare room were all delayed by a newfound habit of smoking a pair of wake-up cigarettes.<\/p>\n
Only in hindsight did she know that some part of Tom\u00e1\u0161 had been punctured. His spirit was leaking from his body, a loose outline of slight muscle and faint gut, until all he could muster were the tentative gestures of a rag doll. The time spent during the weekends haunting their living room together, after a slice of sun sawed through the bleak curtains, reading and chatting on their firm and antique furniture like exhibits in a museum, decreased.\u00a0Taylor didn\u2019t notice that, in the few instances that he\u2019d caress her shoulder or his fingers would glide over her arm, his touch steadily grew colder. These warnings of Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s infidelity could have wailed on Taylor\u2019s sonar.<\/p>\n
When they first arrived in Prague, they stood in the long bureaucratic line at the blocky Foreign Police station to register their marriage and her long-term presence in the Czech Republic. It was a long wait as the day cycled from warm to windy to chilly. Tom\u00e1\u0161 was antsy, leaving Taylor alone to walk around the block to keep his blood moving every so often. He would return with exaggerated stories about Prague to regale her with.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Russians control everything,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cUnderground crime? Russians. Segway rentals? Russians? This line? Relegated by Russians. If you wanted to get in early, you\u2019d need to bribe them. This whole city,\u201d Tom\u00e1\u0161 said as if introducing her to an old friend. \u201cIs one illicit arrangement.\u201d<\/p>\n
This arrangement was lost to her; she was busy counting her blessings, mumbling them like a mantra.<\/p>\n
When they moved to Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s birth city, Taylor adopted it, grasped the silver jewel in her hands, and graced it with unconditional adoration. She forgave Prague. Prague, which despite having linguistic credentials that equaled her husband\u2019s (sans Czech and Russian fluency), could only loan her a mediocre mercenary teaching job at a company called Budoucnost. Prague, with its valley-like inclines. Prague who strained Taylor\u2019s bicep with an eternal crick as she held tight to the loose inertia of the metro.<\/p>\n
Taylor merely assumed that Tom\u00e1\u0161, in a fit of insomnia had risen from his bed, dressed in silent contemplation and gallantly swirled his scarf around his neck before departing into the blossoming twilight, deciding to perform his morning rituals at his shared office. She, after all, understood that he had not been sleeping well and that it behooved her too to use the extra hours of wakefulness to catch up on her tireless grading and preparation. Yet, as Taylor reaffirmed her love of Prague, she missed the symptoms of her husband\u2019s infidelity, and certainly missed the cause.<\/p>\n
It had taken Tom\u00e1\u0161 months of ragged insistence to his wavering and asexual fianc\u00e9e, Taylor, that his commitment to their sexless marriage was to be sacrosanct. He belabored her with his certainty, breaking from his terse and humdrum monosyllables to enamor her to his high-pitched persistence and flurry of superlatives: absolutely, indefatigably, unconditionally. He did not admit that his self-estimation proved incorrect, and Taylor could not have known that he had slunk from his bed before the encumbrance of daybreak and tiptoed up the apartment buildings\u2019 staircase to be wordlessly welcomed into their neighbor\u2019s home.<\/p>\n
That morning, Taylor trekked to clientele at Fiat, instructing a trio of under-caffeinated men, helping them extract veggie-tables and italias from their lexicons. Then she took a bus to a metro station, rode the line from end to end, and walked to a quiet house in the suburban fringes to teach a pair of teenage siblings.<\/p>\n
The city was an antidote to itself. More than the old castles, more than the brilliant gold of the astronomical clock that dances on the hour. It was the minutiae of daily affairs, such as the chime of trolleys and the stoic rush of commuters, that stabilized her. Taylor\u2019s job was to craft lessons that targeted specific complications of English, and it was her everyday teaching anxieties, as well as her day-long treks across the length of Prague from client to client, that lulled her into a sweaty fatigue.<\/p>\n
The boy was twelve and would frequently ask for Taylor\u2019s help translating video game nomenclature. The girl was fourteen and would ask for definitions of British slang she unearthed from decrepit paperbacks. Taylor didn\u2019t have much to teach them.<\/p>\n
The afternoon after Tom\u00e1\u0161 disappeared to fumble around in a ritualistic tug-of-war with Jana, their neighbor whose bedroom was ten-or-so feet above theirs, Taylor was in the family\u2019s living room. A still, sterile atmosphere crowded around a dining table. The girl, reaching in her bag for a book, instead produced a carton of Marlboros. Her brother and Taylor both glimpsed the small box before she could hide it away. An argument ensued.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t smoke those,\u201d the brother said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t know anything except for computers,\u201d the sister said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom quit smoking before we were born, Taylor, so she knows she shouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is not your business, right, Taylor?\u201d<\/p>\n
Taylor was thrilled that she was not their mother or their babysitter. She had no horse in their cigareta race.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t care for the smell. But it is also none of my business,\u201d Taylor said, adding natural emphasis to the \u2018none.\u2019 \u201cMarl-bore-oh,\u201d she said, sounding out the word. \u201cDo you know, nicotine? Lungs? Cancer? Say them with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
The stop closest to her home was on the corner of a plaza outside a cathedral. In her first year in Prague, Taylor would sometimes pass by a protest outside one of the many looming cathedrals, though, thankfully, not this one. Czech and British voices railed against a supposed cultural shift. Crowds buzzed with sentiments hot to the touch, railing against the influx of refugees from Syria whom she never saw much of. Why gather outside a church in a country famous for its atheism? And, why did their ire stop at the middle easterners and not extend to ex-pats? She, after all, was the in-grown hair in the belly of Czechia, married to a citizen, but ignorant of its customs, the language slipping off her like oil.<\/p>\n
The night after Tom\u00e1\u0161 skipped work to, as Taylor later speculated, to brandish and be brandished, she rose from the underground in Prague 3. Every part of the city throbbed with character, but \u017di\u017ekov was her favorite. It felt even-keeled, bustling with the fervor of short strides. Rarely did she see someone peeing in the street or trying to obnoxiously flirt with her. She appreciated the former working-class neighborhood\u2019s tangle of gothic architecture. On that night in autumn, alight with red leaves and warm Victorian street lamps, she still expected Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s head to peek out from a doorway when she called his name.<\/p>\n
She checked their spare room, living room, and then their bedroom. His black sheets, laced with childish geometric shapes, were as smoothly made as when she had woken up that morning. It wasn\u2019t uncommon for him to wake up as early as he had, either returning from a brisk walk around a cathedral pavilion as Taylor awoke, or heading straight to the office. Yet, he always made it home by night. As she sat to catch her breath, her clotted legs aching as if they were rooted into the boards of a heeling ship, she assumed that he had a meeting he forgot to tell her about.<\/p>\n
Tom\u00e1\u0161 was always forgetting his students\u2019 names, which Zuzie was which, regretting how the list of the Czech government\u2019s sanctioned names was skewed too small. He would, sucking in his mouth, admit to Taylor when he lost his students\u2019 essays. Often forgetting that he was cooking, he had accumulated cow-loads of burnt beef. Taylor felt she could never critique her husband for his quirks because she shared them. She knew that, once freed from her whirlwind days of teaching at Budoucnost and she was affixed to a more permanent gig, she\u2019d be just as forgetful. Her meals, too, had skinned, crisp edges.<\/p>\n
She thought that he may have forgotten to tell her that he was going to the pub with his Slovenian co-worker in the linguistics department. Those creaky and rustic bars whose beer, at 50 Koruna, were so cheap that it felt like plucking low-hanging fruit. Or, she considered too that he may have planned a mushroom foraging trip and neglected to mention it. She imagined him sitting in a taxi with dirty jeans, cupping the fringes of a growingly fierce beard, fretting.<\/p>\n
\u201cRemember the park bench?\u201d he once asked Taylor one Friday the spring before, as they spiraled into drunkenness at one of these pubs. It was on a rainy Seattle afternoon, under Taylor\u2019s own extra-large umbrella, that Tom\u00e1\u0161 proposed, sliding the box over to her as if passing a note. Taylor of course remembered, still battling doubts that their relationship could last. She, asexual, didn\u2019t have room in her life for sex. She avoided obsessive physicality. However, she still was a romantic, and after losing multiple relationships to sexual mismatch, she foresaw this one ending the same. Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s proposal was security; he said that he didn\u2019t see her lack of sexuality as baggage, and she trusted it would stay that way.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was our twelfth or so walk around that park,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd it was the third time I planned on proposing. The first two times I kept leaving the ring at home.\u201d<\/p>\n
Despite any difficulties, Taylor was an optimist. She couldn\u2019t imagine Tom\u00e1\u0161 cheating because she saw him as incapable of keeping a deception going. He was a horrendous texter, loathing any and all correspondence.<\/p>\n
When they would go out to drink or eat in neighborhoods less frequented by tourists, she would notice the occasional glance her way, different from the wandering eyes of lonely men. Though most people were friendly, others were unimpressed by her pluckiness. Cashiers were nonplussed by faint attempts (nemluv\u00edm cesky she would say, \u201cI don\u2019t speak Czech,\u201d the only phrase she\u2019d been able to squarely pronounce), and waitresses hid frustration behind pursed lips when Taylor ordered French fries and tomato-soup ketchup by way of pointing and garbled Czech. Taylor thought her treatment well-deserved, especially since her othering was non-invasive. Comforting, even, being merely arm\u2019s length in their gilded cage of lumber floors. Prague was her anxious contradiction, a deluge of emotion. She wanted it to love her, she wanted it to hate her, and the city softened all of these extremes.<\/p>\n
Whenever she expressed fears about their relationship, or how she felt like some freeloader living off the charitable bilingualism of the locals,\u00a0Tom\u00e1\u0161 would not let these negative feelings stand uncontested.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know what you\u2019re going through,\u201d he once said. \u201cThese emotions\u2014they\u2019re like running the washer to get the acid out of new blue jeans. Keep running them through!\u201d<\/p>\n
For a year Taylor let herself be pommeled by these fears and self-doubts, and due to Tom\u00e1\u0161 \u2018s unrelenting drive to be a good husband, she had trouble conjuring any angle from which their adoration was not reciprocated. She thought that their marriage was healthy, free of desperate attachment she saw around her.<\/p>\n
Her trust prevented her from noticing something off about their dark-haired upstairs neighbor. Taylor mistook her aloof and frazzled disposition as forgetful. In the quiet of night, Taylor would joke to her husband that Jana was getting rid of drugs whenever she would repeatedly flush her toilet three-four times in a row. Whenever Jana saw her, Taylor was dressed like an American: sweatpants, tank top, sneakers\u2014dressed to fetch the mail or a take a walk around the nearby cathedral plaza.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow are you? What do you do?\u201d Jana would always ask. \u201cI feel like I see you here all the time. When do you have time to work?\u201d<\/p>\n
And so, she went to sleep and thought of him arriving in the dead of night, sitting on his bed, pulling off his boots one at a time before collapsing. She did not imagine the truth. Taylor was unaware that Jana\u2019s frequent flushing was her and Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s signal: an invitation, one that he accepted again and again, always careful to make it home no more out-of-order than usual, the evidence of his weakened will held in his chest with the careful parceling of panicked exhales. On this particular excursion, however, he stayed at Jana\u2019s from the early morning through the night.<\/p>\n
When Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s bed remained empty in the morning, Taylor called his phone and immediately got his incoherent voice mail. She called his office, only for his co-worker to answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have not heard from him,\u201d he said. Unlike Tom\u00e1\u0161, his accent was more pronounced and the stress of his syllables had the air of sketched-out calculation.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you see him at all yesterday?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t come in yesterday. One of his students asked me if he \u2018dozed of,\u2019 as if I am his handler or something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWill you call me if you see him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will not see him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Taylor set out to find her husband. If something was off, he\u2019d be in Prague 1, she reasoned, to gain distance and perspective. She rode the metro to the nearest stop. She passed by scores of slow tourists crossing the Charles Bridge. She passed the always-guarded American embassy, climbing the steep, stoned road. During their first weeks in the city, they often would come to the Starbucks placed near Prague castle, looking out over the city\u2019s peak. Somehow, Taylor thought she\u2019d find Tom\u00e1\u0161, lost in retrospection, taking in the sweep of stacked buildings.<\/p>\n
She climbed the stairs into a vegetarian restaurant they used to love, but found it empty. She entered the Catholic Church nearby, whose name eluded her but she remembered that Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s mother wished that they had been married there and not in a Washington courthouse. Inside were specks of people in prayer spread across the pews, hangers-on to an eschewed faith. There was no way she\u2019d ever find her husband on foot. They had no friends she could ask; they hadn\u2019t made any since moving, were too self-involved with each other, a pair of forgetful phantoms leaving for work before returning to congregate together. The sun was setting and members of the church were filing in for a weekday Mass. Taylor needed to involve the police.<\/p>\n
The police police, not the bureaucrats that managed her foreign status. She traveled down back to \u017di\u017ekov. The route to the station snaked through a network of grey streets and across the lavish expanse of hilly green in a park. She peeked her head into a few pubs along the way. She passed by parents and their booming children in strollers, past pet owners speaking to their dogs as family members instead of pets. Taylor rounded down uneven stone steps, the color fading as she submerged into a harsh cobblestone ravine. The police station\u2019s fa\u00e7ade was an ugly canvas. It\u2019s automatic doors and windows looked like a face caught out of position. An officer with sheening silver hair smoked a cigarette out front.<\/p>\n
Taylor knew that she was watching her, but not menacingly. Her eyes darted between the road and Taylor, curious and patient. Taylor worked up her nerves. She would walk in, say that she needed a translator, and pronounce her husband missing. She would sit down at an officer\u2019s desk and answer questions she would be embarrassed to give the answer to. When did she last see her husband? Forty-eight hours earlier. Had she tried to reach him? Yes, but they never text or call anyway. Taylor\u2019s nerves stirred her body. To the officer, Taylor figured, she didn\u2019t look like a woman with a missing husband but a criminal coming in to confess.<\/p>\n
What was one of the last things they did together? Sell their King-sized mattress in favor of two, smaller beds to improve their sleep schedules. How could she explain that their hands didn\u2019t need to be clenched together at all times?\u00a0 They didn\u2019t need to be glued to one another on the same end of a booth? That they just knew how the other felt because it was obvious, and no more than the odd head on his shoulder, blanket compliment, teamwork in keeping their small apartment running was necessary to prove it? His nasty business didn\u2019t need to include her, she\u2019d need to say.<\/p>\n
Would she also include that after two years of successful marriage, Taylor saw, within her nest of anxiety, an ounce of superiority growing? Though subconscious, an inkling within her believed the affectionate exchanges she saw in other couples were desperate clings to parting waves. She and her husband were, arm in arm, resisting any notions that their lives together needed flavor beyond what it already was.<\/p>\n
She couldn\u2019t imagine anyone believing that. She\u2019d seem careless, clueless even. And as she imagined the doubt on an imaginary police officer\u2019s face hearing her story, her own doubt encroached.<\/p>\n
The officer out front approached her, asking a question in Czech and, seeing that Taylor didn\u2019t understand, asked in English:<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you need help, miss?\u201d she asked. She put her cigarette out, dropping it to the dirty sidewalk.<\/p>\n
A furtive suspicion unwrapped in Taylor\u2019s brain. Her avoidant thoughts lead her to recall her bizarre upstairs neighbor. She remembered Jana\u2019s questions, the repeated flushing of her toilet.<\/p>\n
\u201cMiss?\u201d she asked again.<\/p>\n
Nemluv\u00edm cesky was all Taylor replied with, not even making eye contact, before heading home.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Tom\u00e1\u0161 only brought Taylor to Prague after asking no fewer than a dozen times if she really wanted to even go.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you prepared? Living abroad isn\u2019t easy. Most Praguers speak English. But,\u201d he told her. \u201cIt can be a bit stark. If you don\u2019t want to go, we don\u2019t have to go. Just tell me. Just let me know.\u201d He never blamed her for not picking up Czech the way he did English and Russian.<\/p>\n
A week before Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s disappearance, the foreign police came to their apartment for an unannounced inspection. They passed. They had pictures of themselves together stationed in the living room, their clothes mingled in the closet. There was one bed that they shared. They were a real couple, both in fact, and in the eyes of the authorities.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you think,\u201d Taylor asked Tom\u00e1\u0161, a few days later as they sipped cheap beer from a nearby pub. \u201cDo you think we should sell the mattress, like we talked about? Our hours are so different now. I just feel like we\u2019re uncomfortable Tetris pieces. We talked about getting separate bed\u2014I don\u2019t know, would that be okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbsolutely,\u201d Tom\u00e1\u0161 said, enthusiastic spittle from his beer shooting onto the table between them.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think spreading out would be easier. But we don\u2019t have to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, we do, if that\u2019s what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n
Just as he never made demands, neither did she. They each had a veto; they each had an out.<\/p>\n
How could Taylor have known that behind that total agreement was a man who was finished? Taylor had asked many times when they were dating if this was the relationship that he wanted. That she could never please him in ways that all her past boyfriends wanted. Their trust was ironclad and so Taylor didn\u2019t mind his quirky early mornings, and was only bothered in the way that she did when she couldn\u2019t solve the final clue of a crossword. How could there have been, behind all his enthusiasm and zest, under that beard the light donned with red affectation, an unspooled thread of acquiescence?<\/p>\n
She returned to their apartment, climbed an extra flight of stairs and pressed her ear to her neighbor\u2019s door. All she could hear was the eerie screech of running air. After a minute or so of quiet, a deep voice perked up behind her. She didn\u2019t understand the Czech accusation but recognized that it was sharp.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry,\u201d Taylor said. Her words tumbled out in a hurried mass. \u201cDownstairs, I live down there.\u201d<\/p>\n
She turned around and pointed at the ground. Before her was a man with his finger pointed as if chastising her like a child. He was older, shorter, and a protruding, hairy V-neck. Taylor recognized but couldn\u2019t place him.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d he asked in English, blinking as if his eyelids were a stoking candle.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m the American. Third floor,\u201d she said, holding three fingers up in a ring gesture.<\/p>\n
A spark of recognition seized both of them. Though she didn\u2019t know his name, he was her landlord. They had met briefly the year prior. Taylor had flown in a week after Tom\u00e1\u0161 had after he already moved in. The landlord came down, politely nodded to Taylor and turned to Tom\u00e1\u0161 to discuss some discrepancy in the lease in Czech.<\/p>\n
\u201cAh yes,\u201d\u00a0he said. \u201cThe American. I still want to know what you are doing.\u201d<\/p>\n
A pause hushed them.<\/p>\n
When they were dating, Tom\u00e1\u0161 chatted endlessly about all the Americans and Brits and Aussies he had befriended online over the family computer in his adolescence. He talked about how many of them disappeared completely, leaving behind only the legacy of their grammars and vocabularies; the composite parts he fashioned into fluency. Tom\u00e1\u0161 was an amalgamation of all things. And she forgave his forgetfulness because his memory worked like his control of Czech, English, Russian, so languid and free, until it would suddenly freeze, where a clever synthesis perched on the tip of his tongue. In these moments there was an intellectual bent to his stoppage, watching his brain scour the vast traffic of networks for one more piece of something to share with her. And when he found it, it came out as a hiccup-sized yawp.<\/p>\n
A crack of a voice passed through the door. A spike in tone. In no language in particular the concentrated rapid-fire of syllables passed through the threshold like an unkept secret. The voice of a man who called every contact he knew to get his wife interviews.\u00a0The voice of a man who proposed on a park bench, sliding the box to Taylor to avoid making a scene.<\/p>\n
Taylor looked to her landlord. He nodded as if he had heard the same ghost that she had. This was his well-hidden secret and she so fell for his agreeableness that she naively believed that they had jointly overcome some impulse. That, deep down, she and Tom\u00e1\u0161 were the same, lacking an outward drive. But realizing that wasn\u2019t the case meant that the precipice their lives abroad was perched upon would always topple, that there would always be a neighbor\u2019s door for her ear to rest against, always a yawp heard in some conniving tongue. Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s voice dissipated, or was drowned out, or crashed into an unseen heap.<\/p>\n
Taylor\u2019s consciousness shambled, layers and layers of history and trust collapsing within her chest. She did not break down simply because she lacked the energy, the hours of worry and miles of walking halting the tears temporarily.\u00a0 She had the energy for a single question:<\/p>\n
\u201cCould you help me with something?\u201d she asked the landlord. He nodded and she brought him down her home. She pointed to Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s bed, and he with no hesitation dragged the frame, mattress and all, from the bedroom. He carried it into the spare room and dropped it across the floor like a gash. Rubbing his hands together, he left without a word.<\/p>\n
The next day Taylor taught the siblings like she did every Wednesday afternoon. The pair of them had uncovered a new topic to bicker about. Taylor listened and took notes about possible mispronunciations.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour square glasses make you look undignified,\u201d the girl said to her brother.<\/p>\n
That same night, as Taylor read on the living room couch, she heard the door close and his steps shuffle towards the bedroom. Then, on his way to the spare room, Taylor caught a glimpse of him in the door frame. His hair was wet and scraggly. He didn\u2019t look her way. His beard had been shaven. Tom\u00e1\u0161\u2019s mouth looked as if it had shrunken, his skin resembled a pallor, and when he fell on his bed it\u2019s creaking had the low intonation of a groan.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re just\u2014what was that word?\u201d the brother asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cPretentious,\u201d Taylor said. \u201cIs that what you meant?<\/p>\n
Their argument carried for the rest of the hour. When she was done with her work, Taylor stepped outside as the sun set. The metro carried her away, passing by stop after stop, until she emerged into her favorite district. She felt like a breath dispersing into the moonlit plaza.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
When they were dating, Tom\u00e1\u0161 chatted endlessly about all the Americans and Brits and Aussies he had befriended online over the family computer in his adolescence. He talked about how many of them disappeared completely, leaving behind only the legacy of their grammars and vocabularies; the composite parts he fashioned into fluency. Tom\u00e1\u0161 was an amalgamation of all things. And she forgave his forgetfulness because his memory worked like his control of Czech, English, Russian, so languid and free, until it would suddenly freeze, where a clever synthesis perched on the tip of his tongue. In these moments there was an intellectual bent to his stoppage, watching his brain scour the vast traffic of networks for one more piece of something to share with her. And when he found it, it came out as a hiccup-sized yawp.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":17966,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[2767,2765,2766],"class_list":["post-17754","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-asexuality","tag-czech","tag-prague","writer-andy-bodinger"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17754","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17754"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17754\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17963,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17754\/revisions\/17963"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17966"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17754"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17754"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17754"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}