moon day domestics

Music: Ester Drang: Infinite Keys (2003)

The walls were almost completely glass where we conferred, and the woman in the office next door was deliberately speaking softly on the phone because there was some effort to make the appearance of confidence. Her uncontrollable sneeze blew it. His French cuffs made wispy slide noises on the tops of the three papers that were arranged, with almost with symmetrical precision, on the recently cleaned table. It smelled like Febreeze, and when you placed your hand on some flat surface you left a print. I spied a few of his facial hairs in the folder pocket as I closed it; he didn't listen very well, and spoke from 1:01 p.m. until 2:05 p.m. I've never felt so alone after that, except when Sonny died and I rode a Greyhound bus for two days to make sure I heard the last gasp, and maybe when I broke up with Reisha last October. "They don't care about you, or your loyalty," he said. "They prey on the guilt you're feeling right now, and they will continue to as long as you let them." He had more hair than me---on his fingers, his face, dropping on the just wiped conference table. I wanted to leave almost as soon as he opened his mouth, but there is something about that helpless feeling that fixes you, makes you stay put.

I feel better here at the coffee shop; no one asks me for money. I don't feel quite so alone or helpless. No one wears French cuffs and they type quietly, sipping their coffees and milks. The young, Asian man sitting in front of me wears a "doo rag," as we used to call them back in the day. His t-shirt reads "mph: 69." I don't know what that means, except that perhaps he is fond of speechlessness and coca-cola.

Kate Bush can sing about washing machines because that's the rhythm of her life. Kate Bush is not a socialist, and she's long since stopped running up that hill, too. I remember the refrigerator was olive green at some point in my life, some point when I was young, when I used to make deals with God (you know what mommy always put on top of the refrigerators), when I used to fantasize about telekenesis. I used to dream of vengeance when I was made to stand in the corner. I used to dream about leaving the small rooms behind, getting what was hidden from me, no longer making deals, you know? Independence day dreams, I guess.

Stevie Nicks has crystal visions, but like me, she keeps them to herself.