Work in Progress - Vanessa December 3
December 3
8 a.m.
I'm back from our condo where everything - the room, the food, the sports, and even the entertainment are free to the smallest house in the neighborhood. There's a tiny screened in patio with a pair of potted ferns we barely keep alive. Sometimes Marianne and I live in the condo, on one of those islands in the Caribbean and the porch is gorgeous - it looks out over the beach and opens to the ocean as if the entire landscape is the sea.
Marianne and I lounge with ferns and soak up the sun. She asks me nothing about what I've been doing like what I'm reading - and my reader is with me most of the time, this morning it has crumbs all over it. She goes on about her job, about searching for mini-vacuum cleaners in houses and apartments she barely knows but pretends to know well. I remember she's been on the phone the whole week planning parties - the kind where she sits in someone else's heavily Febreezed living room for half the day and strangers walk in and sometimes eat potato chips. The other kind of parties she has at our house where she tries to sell all the stuff she buys - the makeup, jewelry, and shoes.
"Everybody like good dip," she says.
But I don't hear anything else she says. I'm at the ball on Olympus and then at the store down the block buying sunglasses the same color as Aphrodite's dress...hot pink.
Late at night, after I'm back from the ball, and the rest of my fanciful friends have gone to bed, Waterpark Mom tells me, "There are many paths." And she talks about these paths as if they are countries on a map. Moonlight streams into my room and shadows dance on the wall. I see what she means. She tells me stories about where my boyfriend is until the clouds outside cover the world she talks about.
8 a.m.
I'm back from our condo where everything - the room, the food, the sports, and even the entertainment are free to the smallest house in the neighborhood. There's a tiny screened in patio with a pair of potted ferns we barely keep alive. Sometimes Marianne and I live in the condo, on one of those islands in the Caribbean and the porch is gorgeous - it looks out over the beach and opens to the ocean as if the entire landscape is the sea.
Marianne and I lounge with ferns and soak up the sun. She asks me nothing about what I've been doing like what I'm reading - and my reader is with me most of the time, this morning it has crumbs all over it. She goes on about her job, about searching for mini-vacuum cleaners in houses and apartments she barely knows but pretends to know well. I remember she's been on the phone the whole week planning parties - the kind where she sits in someone else's heavily Febreezed living room for half the day and strangers walk in and sometimes eat potato chips. The other kind of parties she has at our house where she tries to sell all the stuff she buys - the makeup, jewelry, and shoes.
"Everybody like good dip," she says.
But I don't hear anything else she says. I'm at the ball on Olympus and then at the store down the block buying sunglasses the same color as Aphrodite's dress...hot pink.
Late at night, after I'm back from the ball, and the rest of my fanciful friends have gone to bed, Waterpark Mom tells me, "There are many paths." And she talks about these paths as if they are countries on a map. Moonlight streams into my room and shadows dance on the wall. I see what she means. She tells me stories about where my boyfriend is until the clouds outside cover the world she talks about.
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