Barcadi Evening
Today’s dinner: Barcardi Gold, straight from the bottle, and Baked Tostidos, in fun “scoopable” shapes. Strapped in a furry red robe from Target, I ingraciously perch in my crumb-riddled office chair, scored off Craigslist for $20.
The cat paws at the door, pathetic little scratches, “they’re trying to kill me,” mews.
So I take off my hearing aid. It sleeps on a mountain of GRE study guides stacked at my elbow: curled, flesh-colored, tailed. It looks like a fetus.
In the middle of the night I felt JS stumble around the room, and opened my eyes to his nude, hulking frame wavering in the dark like a white dybbuk searching for its lost eyes. He leaves. In his absence, dark shapes grin: the stationary bike with its wide, handlebar mouth; the fallen towels with their bemused folds. In the far corner, a bench press stirs, little dumbbell children giggling at its teats. A square of striped light pans across the far wall, followed by bleating hip-hop and a dull engine roar. I am reminded of Georgina’s house: Georgina’s room, Georgina’s shadow, thudding and pixie-haired, Peter Pan on steroids; a distant cousin with the face of a horse and the wits of molasses. That was the only summer I knew her.
He returns, steadier now. In his hand is an envelope I confuse for a Kleenex. He seems relieved I am already awake. He sits down next to me. I adore his belly. Written on the envelope, in his spiky, sleepy hand:
“Your hearing aid is screeching.”
Only, he spells it “screaching,”
Embarrassed and guilty, I start mouthing “I’m sorry,” forgetting that he’s the one who can hear; I forget that. I forget that people hear. I mouth to them often when I am deaf.
Pen still in hand, he writes:
“I just wanted to know if that’s okay.”
Georgina married in the early 90’s and I imagined him to be what I, at the time, imagined all husbands to be: balding and skinny; thick glasses and collared shirts; newspapers and crossed legs; CNN and Law & Order. I imagined him to be much like the Dad from Calvin and Hobbes:
Who also kind of looks like the Web guy at my work, and Tom Hanks.
The cat paws at the door, pathetic little scratches, “they’re trying to kill me,” mews.
So I take off my hearing aid. It sleeps on a mountain of GRE study guides stacked at my elbow: curled, flesh-colored, tailed. It looks like a fetus.
In the middle of the night I felt JS stumble around the room, and opened my eyes to his nude, hulking frame wavering in the dark like a white dybbuk searching for its lost eyes. He leaves. In his absence, dark shapes grin: the stationary bike with its wide, handlebar mouth; the fallen towels with their bemused folds. In the far corner, a bench press stirs, little dumbbell children giggling at its teats. A square of striped light pans across the far wall, followed by bleating hip-hop and a dull engine roar. I am reminded of Georgina’s house: Georgina’s room, Georgina’s shadow, thudding and pixie-haired, Peter Pan on steroids; a distant cousin with the face of a horse and the wits of molasses. That was the only summer I knew her.
He returns, steadier now. In his hand is an envelope I confuse for a Kleenex. He seems relieved I am already awake. He sits down next to me. I adore his belly. Written on the envelope, in his spiky, sleepy hand:
“Your hearing aid is screeching.”
Only, he spells it “screaching,”
Embarrassed and guilty, I start mouthing “I’m sorry,” forgetting that he’s the one who can hear; I forget that. I forget that people hear. I mouth to them often when I am deaf.
Pen still in hand, he writes:
“I just wanted to know if that’s okay.”
Georgina married in the early 90’s and I imagined him to be what I, at the time, imagined all husbands to be: balding and skinny; thick glasses and collared shirts; newspapers and crossed legs; CNN and Law & Order. I imagined him to be much like the Dad from Calvin and Hobbes:
Who also kind of looks like the Web guy at my work, and Tom Hanks.
posted by Kelly Haydonat 11:46 AM
1 Comments:
God Damn.
I posted a comment on here but I guess it never made it...
I just love your writing, sweetheart.
xo
me
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