| Laughing and grasping, sweating and dropping, flopping, folding, shifting and hefting, resting and trying again. No, like this. Wait. Put your hand here. That's it. That's the way Jean-Claude and I carried our first futon home to our first home sweet home: two rooms and mop and a broom, a cutting board, a knife, a tidy little life. Except. I'm nobody's wife. I'll cut the onions any way I like. I'll walk past the window naked if I want to, thank-you, right through the bamboo blinds' long thin lines of streetlight and sleepshadow. The blinds came with the apartment. And now Jean-Claude thinks he owns them, and the bed, the cutting board, the knife, my head. He sleeps on his back. Snores, and denies it. I shiver and he says I'm not cold. Come over, why don't you? > > > |
