They steal anything they can lay their hands on and they are gone
The man is a Panama Parasite I try
She doesn't respond
Not even with an indignant raise of her shoulders
A gesture that I am familiar with, because it has become almost automatical in similar circumstances
She will stretch the monologue for another hour and then she will top it with oh, you modify without any restriction
One time the emphasis on modify
Another time on without
A third time on any
. . . and always the sidekicks, at least one, sometimes three
And at every hour, sometimes in the middle of the night
Without restriction the door is open for them
I will stop it, do you hear me?
Damn, if I go on with it
It's a long lonely road to the next borderline
On purpose I speak in metaphores; this makes it easier for her not to have to respond
For me it is a matter of self respect
While she keeps on talking I convince myself by way of a complex interior dialogue, that it is
because of the strangeness of the language, and not because of the strangeness of my presence, that she isn't even pretending that she is listening to my words
. . . want a drink?
Now you see it
Without restriction working myself inside out for other people
And what do I get in return?
A warm chair I say, more direct than my usual self
Ha! she laughs scornfully, follow me
She walks ahead of me
Her round back moves me, because I know that although she pampers her big breasts like two puppies she also looks at them with amazement
Here, take a good look, here
This bed is not even a year old and I can already put it in the dumpster
Face down she falls on it
I turn around and go back to the lounge
Next to the turntable I go through her collection for an appropriate song and just when I have found it I hear a shrill sound behind me
Was that you?
The tone of my voice tells me that I am startled
I look around, but cannot immediatly detect another possible source
Granite pencils write alternative alliteration I call
My mouth already smiles ah, you modify ...
My head already nods along at the cadence of the words that I think I am going to hear
But there is nada
It even remains suspiciously silent
I go back to the bedroom
She is in the same position
Is anything the matter with you? I ask with a slight tremble in my voice
He of all people talks about granite pencils
The tone in which she pronounces these words has indeed a shrill echo
And then it dawns on me she heard what I said!
I feel a blush come to my cheeks
And as I descend the stairs
she has heard what I said!
and as I close the door behind me
and as I stand outside gasping for air
the message dances in me
she heard what I said!
she heard what I said!
© mc 1977-2014
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