Now she begins to sort of authoritatively advise me again that I have serious tarter. “ She has some tarter that I can’t remove so I suggest she come back because her gums are so sensitive and nonvaccine her for the water treatment. The hygienist takes that white suck-up tube out of my mouth. “ Hello, oh I see,” as he looks into my mouth that has been open too long and my cheeks start to stiffen. When he comes into my cubicle, he sort of prances on his toes and gives me an elbow safe bump. FX is the Music Man dressed in a white tunic. When I was thirty-something sixty-eight seemed very old. FX’s office calls me every six months because I am over sixty-five. It’s been a year, and at sixty that was enough. Thoughts begin to form and ruminate, what is important? The theme of my week began when I finally was in the Dentists office. The sensations leading up to my theme jilted my creativity, and the pages I wrote were jammed with contradictions, maybe they still are. Sometimes a year, sometimes one single day launches the theme, or it may just tumble into our path unexpectedly and replace whatever we were holding on to dearly, and deliver something unpleasant, like sickness, or separation. The draft of sleep lingers in my eyes, and my feet shuffle on the wood floors while I grind the beans and think through the remains of the week. Somewhere someone is dressing for work, breathing by the tick of the clock until he or she ( can’t figure out the right pronouns) must report for work.
The street is hollowed like a tunnel, the light of day is shining in some distant country, and the sky appears tinted with primer. I wonder for a moment if I should boil water for tea or coffee, and settle on decaf. I ROSE AT 3:00 AM to turn the heat on, pick up my writing journal, and discern the week’s theme. The irony of her activity is that she doesn’t go to the events that she plans on going to wear the outfits. In the last few months, all of this seemed to rise up like a curtain before a play, in a theater and she witnessed his insolence and his silent howl for help. She did not notice that his slacking posture on the front porch, head lowered and staring out without any body movement was a sign, she in fact despised it and walked away. Greta did not acknowledge the few months before his departure that he was riddled with abject unfulfilling tasks, bills, and construction jobs that no longer fed him purpose and accomplishment. What care I give to all these garments when in the other part of the house, Dodger was descending into a financial coma.” ‘”These days I look at them as if they belonged to someone else, I mean the red suede with gold heels that I wore on a New Year’s Eve of gaiety and not since, the black velvet pumps that always make me feel dainty and light. ‘ It does have a purpose, this way I visualize without wrangling with hangers and you know it just takes too much time when you’re in a closet. After a breach of sanity, she goes into this room and visualizes outfits and color matching like someone might play chess. At the base of the bed, she lined up her shoes, the slip-ons, the flats, the pumps stuffed with tissue paper to preserve their shape, and the wedges. It’s quite practical considering Greta as she has admitted to me half a dozen times, that she was born without common sense or practicality. She diligently arranged her summer pastel skinny jeans on the bed, and next to that row she arranged the T-shirts, camisoles, and shorts.
GLIMS ON THE STUFF MAFIA SAYING WINDOWS
She sits on a chair facing the windows so she can watch the trees live through sun, wind, rain, and snow. There’s a single bed against one wall, a cabinet where she stores the winter boots, and an eight-drawer French nouveau dresser and mirror. It’s a bedroom she converted into a dressing room. She gives me examples that illustrate her obsession with matching outfits in her closet.
Greta let the moment of the village rescue stay with her, like a new pet for as long as she could hold on to its beneficial ointment, away from what she calls her immersion into self. The book is fiction, first-person, and close third person so you’ll need a jogging suit to read. Terrified to post this but it is Sunday and I’m brave on Sunday.
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