The t-shirt I’m wearing has an oozing piece of cherry pie on it, with the words “Care for a slice?” printed across the chest. There are dead flowers on the table, and the A/C isn’t working. My skin is glowing, not from wellness, but from heat. A small ceiling fan and a just-so-positioned floor fan do their best. Gigi is restless. I’m oscillating between rot and resonance while watching Juno Birch play The Sims. It’s funny and hypnotic until I look down and realize Gigi is staring at me, her silky hair blowing up around her face. I wonder briefly, as her eyes close, how dogs are able to continually stare at you until they fall asleep. As if their reverence needs the image of you at the last possible moment. I drift off with the thought: am I fluent in the spaces we prefer to hide?
(Daily Writing 055)
Thoughts?