Costumery

 Through glasses dimly* 

“You haven’t written anything this week,” Roz said, rubbing the end of her nose with the palm of her hand. I looked up from my phone on which I was reading about tea prices in China.
     “No” I said. “I was going to write a Super Bowl preview. Then, I realized I didn’t care.”
     “I could write one,” Roz said.
     “I don’t see how,” I said. “To your credit, you don’t know anything about football. You don’t care about football, period. Never have.”
     “No. But it isn’t about football, is it? It’s about fashion — or costumes, really.”
     “ . . . ? ”
     “The men in electric suits and neon ties who tell you what you’re going to see and then what you’ve seen. The giants dressed like Michelin men, running around bumping into each other. The thousand-and-one dancers dressed in nothing but frenzy, thigh-high boots, and glitter. More, and more frantic, bumping around. More yakking electric suits. Finis.”
     “Finis,” I said. “Yes, finis.”
     “Punkt. Fertig,” Roz said, again rubbing the end of her nose with the palm of her hand.

                                                                              02.07.23