She opens the door and greets us with a gorgeous, buttoned up dress straight out of the 1950s. Her (I imagine very gray) hair is dyed brown, with brassy tones catching the light and revealing her truth. Red lipstick is a shock against her white, creamy skin. She smiles and the lines around her eyes stay frozen, but I can detect warmth in them anyway. She hooks her arm in mine and leads me into her dining room and speaks intensely slow, but delightful sentences,
“Now. Jack, my dog, is in the kitchen. I am going to give you a treat. When I let him out, you may give him the treat. And then, he will be your best friend.” She squeezes my arm before departing.
On her dining room table is a pitcher of iced tea, and three glasses with coasters. Everything around us is pristine and reminiscent of a decorating scheme from the 1980s that tried to evoke something from the Victorian era. Does that even make sense? I’m not sure, but I love it. I want to sit in her dining room as her friend, not as her advisor.
But we get to business.
Sometimes she calls our office just to speak to me.
“I know, I know. I should ask about this ridiculous tariff nonsense. It’s a nightmare, isn’t it?”
“We haven’t seen it before.”
“But I want to talk about you, you beautiful, sweet creature.” She’ll say.
I laugh, “What do you want to talk about?”
“Well, how are you doing?” She asks.
(Daily Writing 018)