Thursday. Work. I am sexy in my tight maroon tank top with a black
spider spreading its spidery legs across my chest.
Cleaning the kitchen, I get a little nutty with the sprayer hose thing that hangs down over the sink and I spray myself right in the
breasts. Laughing, dripping, I turn around and there is
Patrick, smiling at me, crinkled cotton dress shirt, hair a little longer, curlier,
smiling at me, and the most brilliant thing I can come up with is
what are you doing here? and it is a wonderful beginning to a soft-porn movie except he isn't attracted to me at all and I can't blame him,
my lips are chapped and my eyes are all weird and my self-done haircut is ridiculous and my face is just
stupid in general. He has other people to talk to. The kids
swarm him and I watch. He knows who to hug gently and who to swing upside down; he always knew.
I got a letter from my dad today which I can't say too much about because it hurts too much to think of him as old. I am a financial burden. He doesn't know I didn't quite get my degree. He loves me and I pray that he will not die yet and then I feel shitty because all my prayers are selfish. - please God don't take this person away because it will hurt me too much. What the fuck kind of a foxhole idiot prayer is that?
Walking in the park is good; I pass the same tiny cute Asian woman four times and she grins at me each time. It is "WELCOME WHEELCHAIR CHAMPS" time at the tennis courts and I walk past dozens of people whose legs don't work, hauling themselves backwards into vans with rock-muscled arms. When will I start feeling grateful instead of guilty?
Home, watching tv, I am fine or I think I am fine. A commercial with a man and his son and fireflies whirling. I don't care if it's being used to sell something, child wonder is one of the things I will never trade away, I want it around me as long as I live. The next commercial pounds T.S. Eliot into me and will not stop it, T. S. Eliot afraid to act, afraid to ask for love and suddenly it is as bad as it was when I was small enough to ride betweeen my parents in the front seat and we went to the cemetery and I didn't mind much while we were there, but on the way home it hit me, I am going to die and so are my parents and all I could do was sob, I couldn't say it out loud, I just cried and cried and they took me home and put me to bed. It is that bad again now. I had forgotten. I swim with bad unstoppable morbid thoughts. I grind my palms hard against my chest as if that will insulate something. My cat doesn't know what to do. He rubs against my leg and I pet him once and he pushes hard against my hand, squinty with pleasure.
Pete calls and is the right voice.