vanilla raindrops

email: noreia@planet-save.com.

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body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by BodyPUNKS!

 

she can't see me
november 22, 2002; 10:32 pm

the tape into the cassette player, the indian rythmic flute.

she stares, impatiently, expectantly, sardonic.

i grasp a notion to satisfy her, cards shuffling, we'll play.

"what are we playing?"

"well . . . i've got the cards here, in two piles, what do you think?"

slap. slap. slap. her cards, with ease. the music, she comments on it, i can't listen and play.

i sink lower into my surrounding hood, the comforting blackness, i focus. she's winning. i win only twice.

awkward with the cards, awkward in all things. she's amused.

a perpetual holding of breath. at least i have speed to entertain me. at least i have the music.

they come in, there is noise. i play; i'm supposed to? her voice rebuking him, what must he feel like? surge of compassion for a seven-year-old in dirty socks.

sleepy: i leave.

the couch offers me a novel. warm light, heater. hot water -- tea, anyone? they're distracted, barely respond. hot chocolate for me, whipped cream: i ate only a burrito today.

later, they emerge. she -- fascinated by a children's book. she -- old photos. he eats a sparse dinner of scrambled eggs and crackers (it's friday, she said; we never have food on fridays; i wish daddy would go shopping on thursdays), sits on the table. slurp, his hot chocolate like a screaming drill -- i fight off annoyance, watch her, bemused, will she notice? no, old photos. but she notices, and we quietly chuckle.

i return to the world of eighties L.A., oblivious to the words they aren't saying.

i almost sleep.

"i'm ready when you are." okay.

and we drive her home.

Posted by: noreia at 01:48 | link | comments (1) |