Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Garbage Disposal

Day of self-imposed exile. I lounge around in some bare essentials, building a fort of pillows around my semi-comatosed corpse. My legs are smooth so I rest my elbow behind my knee, inside that nuanced nook, sending a deep chill of inured intimacy up my thigh.

Johnny Mathis is crooning about heartbreak on the radio. Natalie Cole too. Cole Porter is singing cheekily and I can't help but grin when he contrasts being "on top" with him on the bottom.

My eyes wander the walls, visualizing potential artwork that might befit an uppity party full of arugala-eating hipsters who reference Jackson Pollack like it's du rigeur to drop names of drunks.

The window filters in light that changes colour from black to blue to black again. I feel uneasy. There is too much to throw out before I leave.

I freely paw at my breasts, making a half-assed attempt to feel for cancer. Nothing.

Still nothing.

I go through all the motions of arousal, clamping down on my arm to keep from screaming. I get hungry.

I read the online edition of Le Devoir, perplexed. Is this improper French grammar? "No," says the working side of my brain.

Al Green's "L-O-V-E" is blaring from the speakers. I don't want to go home. The temptation to stay is stifling. But my sister agreed to pay off 1/3 of my credit card bill. I'm her bitch now.

No comments: