My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground I walk in my hide, walk naked from her rented bed through her hall to her efficiency kitchen, as if I were at home; as if I had all the time in the world; as if we were lovers.
She, naked too, stands at the electric stove, lifting the edge of the pancake so the batter runs under: a single huge pancake, in the special pancake pane.
I put the syrup and margarine on the kitchen table; her fridge, a Louis Vuitton invoice ("PAID") held to the door with a daisy magnet, was as empty as mine. On her desk, the bills, neatly arranged in plastic storage boxes; the family smiles from a seashell frame.
A painting throws back light from the wall: A troupe of white-robed white-winged little girls with black-dotted eyes who, smiling, ply their gold harps, brass trumpets, bronze violins, copper drums, hovering high in white impasto:
"Twelve."
"I think I missed two."
"$750."
Out the big window, the darkening city's grid glows. Naked, we walk down the hall.
{300}
Angel's Apartment: 1,
2, 3.
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 3/05/2007 07:25:00 PM
•
3 comments
"Goodbye, my friends!" Angel, of Dunkin' Donuts, grasping her midriff overspill in both hands.
{N.A.}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 3/05/2007 06:50:00 PM
•
0 comments
