The morning after the evening before

 The morning after the evening before                                             

[. . . continued from here]

“Everybody’s on their own – I should say ‘his or her,’” Mel said, “or ‘we’re all on our own’ for breakfast and lunch.

     “What time do you get up?”

     I told him, “Between 6:00 and 6:30.”

     “So 5:00 and 5:30 here,” he said.

     “Maybe the first day or two,” I said. “I tend to adjust quickly, especially if it means sleeping later.”

     “You’ll be fine,” he said, “though you may be the first one down. You drink coffee?”

     “Usually.”

     “Let me change the time the first pot begins brewing then.”

Listening to cardinals and robins through the dark, I think, “What did I mean ‘the first day or two’? How long do I think I’m staying? Already, after one night, I was feeling – as I often do – in the way. I have broken into a safe, I’m rummaging about not knowing what is or isn’t valuable. Or, I’m the metaphor that doesn’t work any better than that one, more confusing than enlightening.

     Imagine a lengthy existential whine here about how I am always the speck in the eye, the fly in the ointment, the maiden aunt that no one can admit is difficult to love, though the youngest whispers so everyone can here, “When is she leaving, Mom?” (And Mom answers, “Not for a while, dear. Besides you love her visits. You know you do.”)

     The speck, the fly, the bur under the saddle, always. It’s not here in particular but everywhere I am in the way. I am in my own way. I’m polite to myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m not irritated by my own company. Imagine pages of such whinging, existential drivel.

      You’re the youngest, now all grown up. Not your maiden aunt but her bastard son arrives. You don’t know precisely how long he’s staying – overnight, a few days, a week and a half? It’s not an accusation you feel comfortable making, but it looks like he’s living out of his car.

Mr. Ball must have walked in on little cat’s feet, because I jump in my chair, when he says, “How’s the coffee? I think Kathleen made it, which means it tastes like watery, moonlit shit – right?”

Mid-morning I . . . [to be continued]

03.30.16