(no subject)
my handwriting:
and here is the story. this is total insanity that i wrote more than a year ago, when i could still write things that were good.
---
The phone rang. I picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Who is this?" an unfamiliar, male voice demanded.
"The wrong number," I replied, and hung up the phone.
The next day I was at the store. I was buying some wine. I had a date that night that I thought might turn into something more.
I stood in the aisle and looked indecisively at the bottles. They caught my reflection and in them I saw myself four inches high and mousy-looking.
Someone knocked on the door. I slunk from my bed, where I had been stroking his fuzzy arm with the tips of my fingers, and strode naked down the hall. Intuition said Jehovah's Witnesses; the peephole said no, it was just the neighbor. This neighbor wanted me bad. Sometimes I would go out to get the paper and see him peek his head out of his door at the same time, pretending to be watching for the mail. It was for this reason that I sometimes wore only my robe, open at the top, and bent over provacatively to get the paper. I don't know if it tweaked those inner male nerves of his or not; my breasts are the size of small apples.
The neighbor's eye took up most of my view out of the peephole. He was holding my newspaper. I remembered that I usually get the paper at 8 a.m., but today, though, on the account of him being here, I had slept in.
My clock with the cat whose eyes and tail moved back and forth read 9:29 a.m. The hall was dark, and I could see the dim, dusty outlines of the furniture in my living room. The heavy drapes made it impossible to tell if it was sunny outside.
Just then, the air conditioner kicked on, and the drapes shifted suddenly and uneasily from the gust of cold air. An oblong of white light hit the wall next to my head, then rippled. It landed on my shoulder. All the post-coital hormones within me were raging, making my skin gleam. It had been only minutes earlier that he had given a heavy sigh and rolled off of me. The two of us lay still, side by side and silent, until finally he slid his arm across the peaks and curves of my torso and let his fingers trace the outline of my navel. That was when I started stroking his arm. That was when the neighbor knocked.
I heard the newspaper drop to the ground with a flat thud, then retreating, shuffling footsteps. I crept back down the hall and slid into bed.
His mouth was partly open, but his eyes were closed. I watched his bare chest rise and fall for a bit. His breathing was slow and regular. I was, in my own way, gasping for air.
Everything was completely silent. Usually around this time of the day, I would hear my neighbor shaving with an electric razor in his bathroom. Separated by only two feet of concrete, we would eavesdrop on each other. I had taken to running the water in the sink when I used the bathroom, because of a fear that he would be listening on the other side of the wall and enjoying it.
I was out to eat with my friend Betty, Barbie and Ken's illegitimate child. I kept biting my tongue while she kept asking me what was wrong. My tongue felt like it didn't belong in my mouth; it was swollen and foreign.
I couldn't eat because of my tongue, so I watched Betty pick at a salad. Betty was swollen herself; she was eight months pregnant with twins that she was going to name Robin and Robert, regardless their ultimate gender. She thought they were a boy and a girl. She made me remember why I'd had an abortion and killed the little parasite festering in embryonic fluid inside me.
But she didn't know about that. Nobody knew about that except the counselor whom had been assigned to me to help me through my "difficult time." I didn't see what was so difficult about it.
The counselor told my male boss that I was having "female trouble," which always scares even the toughest of men because they don't know what the hell it means. Then I went to the clinic and had it sucked out, and when the counselor asked me how I felt afterwards, I told her "free."
When I got home from the movies he left me at the door with a slight yet lingering kiss. He wasn't staying over because he had things to do in the morning. I let my purse drag down the hallway behind me like a dead dog, reminding myself that if any children came along and asked me what was wrong with it, I'd say, "Oh, he's just sleeping."
It was pitch black in my bedroom. I could hear music in the neighbor's apartment and figured he must be entertaining himself because he was a loser who couldn't get a date. I dropped my coat on the floor and liked the way it sounded.
the end.
and here is the story. this is total insanity that i wrote more than a year ago, when i could still write things that were good.
---
The phone rang. I picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Who is this?" an unfamiliar, male voice demanded.
"The wrong number," I replied, and hung up the phone.
The next day I was at the store. I was buying some wine. I had a date that night that I thought might turn into something more.
I stood in the aisle and looked indecisively at the bottles. They caught my reflection and in them I saw myself four inches high and mousy-looking.
Someone knocked on the door. I slunk from my bed, where I had been stroking his fuzzy arm with the tips of my fingers, and strode naked down the hall. Intuition said Jehovah's Witnesses; the peephole said no, it was just the neighbor. This neighbor wanted me bad. Sometimes I would go out to get the paper and see him peek his head out of his door at the same time, pretending to be watching for the mail. It was for this reason that I sometimes wore only my robe, open at the top, and bent over provacatively to get the paper. I don't know if it tweaked those inner male nerves of his or not; my breasts are the size of small apples.
The neighbor's eye took up most of my view out of the peephole. He was holding my newspaper. I remembered that I usually get the paper at 8 a.m., but today, though, on the account of him being here, I had slept in.
My clock with the cat whose eyes and tail moved back and forth read 9:29 a.m. The hall was dark, and I could see the dim, dusty outlines of the furniture in my living room. The heavy drapes made it impossible to tell if it was sunny outside.
Just then, the air conditioner kicked on, and the drapes shifted suddenly and uneasily from the gust of cold air. An oblong of white light hit the wall next to my head, then rippled. It landed on my shoulder. All the post-coital hormones within me were raging, making my skin gleam. It had been only minutes earlier that he had given a heavy sigh and rolled off of me. The two of us lay still, side by side and silent, until finally he slid his arm across the peaks and curves of my torso and let his fingers trace the outline of my navel. That was when I started stroking his arm. That was when the neighbor knocked.
I heard the newspaper drop to the ground with a flat thud, then retreating, shuffling footsteps. I crept back down the hall and slid into bed.
His mouth was partly open, but his eyes were closed. I watched his bare chest rise and fall for a bit. His breathing was slow and regular. I was, in my own way, gasping for air.
Everything was completely silent. Usually around this time of the day, I would hear my neighbor shaving with an electric razor in his bathroom. Separated by only two feet of concrete, we would eavesdrop on each other. I had taken to running the water in the sink when I used the bathroom, because of a fear that he would be listening on the other side of the wall and enjoying it.
I was out to eat with my friend Betty, Barbie and Ken's illegitimate child. I kept biting my tongue while she kept asking me what was wrong. My tongue felt like it didn't belong in my mouth; it was swollen and foreign.
I couldn't eat because of my tongue, so I watched Betty pick at a salad. Betty was swollen herself; she was eight months pregnant with twins that she was going to name Robin and Robert, regardless their ultimate gender. She thought they were a boy and a girl. She made me remember why I'd had an abortion and killed the little parasite festering in embryonic fluid inside me.
But she didn't know about that. Nobody knew about that except the counselor whom had been assigned to me to help me through my "difficult time." I didn't see what was so difficult about it.
The counselor told my male boss that I was having "female trouble," which always scares even the toughest of men because they don't know what the hell it means. Then I went to the clinic and had it sucked out, and when the counselor asked me how I felt afterwards, I told her "free."
When I got home from the movies he left me at the door with a slight yet lingering kiss. He wasn't staying over because he had things to do in the morning. I let my purse drag down the hallway behind me like a dead dog, reminding myself that if any children came along and asked me what was wrong with it, I'd say, "Oh, he's just sleeping."
It was pitch black in my bedroom. I could hear music in the neighbor's apartment and figured he must be entertaining himself because he was a loser who couldn't get a date. I dropped my coat on the floor and liked the way it sounded.
the end.