Dangeresque
Mrs. White at the Red Shop showed me the beady-eyed garment, but I can’t pay for it. I’m broke! I already own a gold ring and a gold-filled wristwatch and I am very uncomfortable with these. My eyes sweep the garment and its charms.
I am tempted to say this is how love works, burying everyone in the same style.
Through a fault of my own I set off as if I’m on a horse and just point and go to the next village.
This village is where flowers are painted on the sides of my house—big red dots, big yellow balls.
At home, stuck over a clock’s pretty face, is a note from my husband to whom I do not show affection. With a swallow of tap water, I take a geltab.
By this time I had not yet apologized for my actions. Last night my husband told me to get up out of the bed and to go into another room.
My husband’s a kind man, a clever man, a patient man, an honest man, a hard-working man.
Many people have the notion we live in an age where more people who behave just like he does lurk.
See, I may have a childlike attitude, but a woman I once read about attempted a brand new direction with a straight face.