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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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