Sunday, January 18, 2004

I have a bruise the size of my fist on my outer thigh. I slipped on my porch step and just continued to thud, thud, thud my way down. My dad told me that's what I get for wearing heels in the winter. I told him never to speak to my shoes like that. Asked him whether he's ever worn them, he left and came back with his accordion instead. I told him not to play it. He asked for requests. We ignored him, his mother followed suit. So he started playing some anonymous Russian folk song, tapping his knees in glee. I stared at him, seething. I ate a fourth orange to cope, though I did ask him to play something French. He didn't stop. He changed songs though. Like some surreal Magic School Bus ride, the music carried the house from Stalinist Russia to Maoist China then back again, in an anachronistic time loop.

He and his accordion are inseparable, like a newborn suckling a teet. Or the unproven association between being bald up there, yet hairy everywhere else.

*Note to women: Don't ever marry a man who can easily entertain himself or be easily entertained.

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