Tonight
I would like to hold dusk in my cupped hands, but broken leaves on indoor trees
are far too close to the fire. I’ll just watch them drip.
“I’m bored,” Oscar says. Oscar is my
grown son. Grown sons shouldn’t be bored. He’s a brat. “We’ve got to shut the
windows, it’s too hot out,” he says. Practical Oscar says what he’s thinking
even if he knows I won’t like it.
M. Air Conditioning tries so very
hard to stifle his footsteps, but I can still hear him. He may as well be an
intruder, poking around in my spice rack and licking up the remains of the
nutmeg. Oscar and I eventually settle down in Chamois chairs. We munch on
yellow popcorn out of red and white striped metallic containers.
But it is hot out, and hot out means drinking blueberry cider in a copper
flask. Hot out means Carmen will be dropping by tomorrow to check in on things
and make sure blinds are pulled shut so the furniture isn’t damaged by the sun.
Carmen will take fancy photos. Cart in new furniture and cart out the old. Who
knows where the old, fancy junk goes. Junk gets a price tag rather than a photo
shoot. So many price tags . . . hanging
from thin, plastic cords. I have already guzzled my cider. “Oscar, do you want
a cider? Salmonberry cider?”
“No.” He opens a packet of instant
coffee, sniffs it, curses — dumps it in the trash. Sometimes he doesn’t know
what he wants. He doesn’t know his own mind.
Tonight I drift in and out of sleep.
Sleep. What a waste of time, and I an old man in the loft, lounging on a
looming Ottoman. I try to dream. New Orleans, fountain pens, and railroad ties
tap dance beyond my oily eyelids.
Two
years ago I sold the house of my childhood. They bought it for its seaside
views, gothic lighting, casual rain . . . rustic wood slats, beachy aura,
spacious rooms. They made it a mannequin to dress over and over again. Smoke
wafts up to the loft and I know Carmen from the marketing is here and has probably
already lit four and a half candles.
I wish Oscar were a more proactive
thinker and I wish he did things he wanted to do. Oscar and I used to stand by
the fire and gaze into the Moroccan sun mirror so that the whole stretch of tea
stained sea glistened before us and behind us and above us in the sky’s
stomach. Now he’s just dough lazy and he knows he’s got a good deal here. There
he is out on my god-forsaken-porch, smooching with Carmen even though she is so
much older and smells like pencils. Today is a hot air balloon festival.
Dirigibles and the like, wafting. They look just like they do on pillows and
such.
“Get out of the way!” squeals
Carmen, clutching her camera. She’s trying to capture the brilliance of our
outdoor cushions, paired with the blue melamine dishes and the birds and the
dirigibles. She squeals and mutters wistfully, “Create a golden hour of your
own with these artisan made lanterns and outdoor drinkware . . . .”
Don’t
tell anyone, but I’m leaving.
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