On the other station they play advertisements for ska and reggaeat nightclub lounges and hometown island liquor and detergent and motels with cable and air-conditioning and one of those electric vibrating belts to strap around the waist for angelic housewives looking to lose weight
Call this the nature of contemporary society
She sold me on the car. She was ugly and her body needed work. It’s an easy sell, I tell her. You want the ones with no mileage, I say. My age is forty. I carry my stomach and most days I climb ladders. I fix antennas for a cable company. My last car went kaput in this heat. And it has its hand in everything I care for.
Getting Through the Day
A Clyfford Still Painting
Alissa is still a clone of a much younger Natalie Portman. She was sidelit by candlelight, in her bathrobe, holding the door a third open and not another inch. The coyness in her smile was unintentional—one can only wonder what it did to his heart.
There are miracles and miracles and I hope this reaches you on one of them.
I open the windows, the patio doors, put the tortoise in the empty bathtub, run water for the mountain of dishes. The first teeth of fall are snapping: Cold rain, the wind an angry postcard from a distant hurricane. The house needs a good airing. We lived in these three rooms together, and your perfume and cooking and resentments hang in every fabric, from the shower curtain to the drapes to the pillows on our bed. My bed. Our previous bed. I cut up strawberries, put them in the bathtub. Your tortoise begins to eat, does not seem to miss you, and this somehow pleases me.