(no subject)
I'm not writing well, but I am writing often. It's something.
I get more done before noon than my neighbors get done in a whole week, Eve thought to herself, walking up the block towards her building on the cracked, root-ruptured sidewalk. Joe was already sitting on the front steps when she got there. He could see her walking slowly for over 5 minutes before she finally stood before him in her flower print. He knew because he checked his watch. A wind-up. He'd been waiting for 32 minutes in total. A wind-up. He'd have waited a lot longer, yes.
She stood before him in flower print, starting to gray . Finishing to gray, really. "Joe," she said.
"Morning, Evie, " he answered, removing his hat and standing with an effortful push of both hands on both knobby knees.
"Well," she said, "Here you go, then." She held out her two plastic bags from the Great American, and as soon as he took them them creases in her hands turned from white back to pink and brown, and began to even out. She unlocked the front door & he followed her up the stairs with a lag of 3 or 4 steps, out of the morning sun and the damp air.
Joe hadn't visited in almost 7 years. Now, this morning, he found himself lonely in the library, suddenly not satisfied by the new ecology publications, the water reports. Retired, and somehow sick of coffee, and sick of pornography in a dusty town house in the suburbs. He had taken a cab straight from the library. 183 dollars, plus a 25 dollar tip. He'd had to run into the Mobil to get cash off his credit card account.
She pushed open her apartment door on the third floor. The room full of sunlight and hanging plants, magazines. Eve began to spread the contents of the plastic bags out on the table, the cherry table. "Well, good of you to come, now. All disheveled as you are." She laughed. "I'd never finish all these groceries myself. Smelled so good in the cases though, you know how it is, Joe. I do waste so much. I feel terrible about it." With a wood-handled serated knife, she sliced the loaf of rosemary bread, then 4 big tomatoes with the same knife. She held out a tightly sealed jar to Joe and he opened it with a small grunt but without speaking. He handed it back and sat down in the plastic-covered chair. She poured the caponate into a white bowl, the smell of eggplant & olive & oil filling the kitchen. Joe watched her hands carefully. He watched her mouth change shape as she focused on the cutting and pouring. He felt light. The 183 dollars, plus a 25 dollar tip were worries left in Brooklyn.
Through the rest of the morning & all afternoon, Eve never asked what Joe was doing, visiting after all this time, showing up after 7 years of nothing and many more years of nothing much. Instead she fed him full and talked to him about the kinds of wild plans only a certain kind of 76-year-old could still be crazy about. When the sun started to go down, Eve placed a pan of filberts in the oven to roast, and Joe decided to go for a run. He borrowed a pair of her late husband's shorts. It had already been 12 fast years. She didn't mind, although Charlie probably would have.
Joe heard his bones creaking as he ran. He was too out of breatheven to smile, by the time he reached the first stoplight, but he didn't pass another person anyway. When he got back to 20 Rubio Street, cooling & still clean, too old for sweat, Eve's neighbor let him in the front door and he ascended the stairs slowly and looked through the screen door into the apartment, imagining he was about to meet her again for the first time. He wanted to stay in the moment, until he imagined the perfect first thing to say to her, to make the best impression, to take her arm unawkwardly and have the wrinkles disappear and the time turn back. But the smell of filberts was increasing in the doorway, so he went inside and turned off the oven. He put the uneaten tomato in the fridge. Then he sat on the edge of the pullout couch, on white sheets Eve had cleary made up for him will he was out. He pulled off his shoes and leaned over to open a window to the frog sounds and dark breeze. He pushed down on one of the pillows so that it released a puff of laundry-soap-scent. The same as she used 40 years ago. Then Joe stood & straightened the wrinkle he'd made on the sheet. He went quietly into Eve's room where she was already asleep at 8 in the evening. He lay down beside her, removing the TV guide from under her hand and interlocking his fingers with hers, without waking her.
I get more done before noon than my neighbors get done in a whole week, Eve thought to herself, walking up the block towards her building on the cracked, root-ruptured sidewalk. Joe was already sitting on the front steps when she got there. He could see her walking slowly for over 5 minutes before she finally stood before him in her flower print. He knew because he checked his watch. A wind-up. He'd been waiting for 32 minutes in total. A wind-up. He'd have waited a lot longer, yes.
She stood before him in flower print, starting to gray . Finishing to gray, really. "Joe," she said.
"Morning, Evie, " he answered, removing his hat and standing with an effortful push of both hands on both knobby knees.
"Well," she said, "Here you go, then." She held out her two plastic bags from the Great American, and as soon as he took them them creases in her hands turned from white back to pink and brown, and began to even out. She unlocked the front door & he followed her up the stairs with a lag of 3 or 4 steps, out of the morning sun and the damp air.
Joe hadn't visited in almost 7 years. Now, this morning, he found himself lonely in the library, suddenly not satisfied by the new ecology publications, the water reports. Retired, and somehow sick of coffee, and sick of pornography in a dusty town house in the suburbs. He had taken a cab straight from the library. 183 dollars, plus a 25 dollar tip. He'd had to run into the Mobil to get cash off his credit card account.
She pushed open her apartment door on the third floor. The room full of sunlight and hanging plants, magazines. Eve began to spread the contents of the plastic bags out on the table, the cherry table. "Well, good of you to come, now. All disheveled as you are." She laughed. "I'd never finish all these groceries myself. Smelled so good in the cases though, you know how it is, Joe. I do waste so much. I feel terrible about it." With a wood-handled serated knife, she sliced the loaf of rosemary bread, then 4 big tomatoes with the same knife. She held out a tightly sealed jar to Joe and he opened it with a small grunt but without speaking. He handed it back and sat down in the plastic-covered chair. She poured the caponate into a white bowl, the smell of eggplant & olive & oil filling the kitchen. Joe watched her hands carefully. He watched her mouth change shape as she focused on the cutting and pouring. He felt light. The 183 dollars, plus a 25 dollar tip were worries left in Brooklyn.
Through the rest of the morning & all afternoon, Eve never asked what Joe was doing, visiting after all this time, showing up after 7 years of nothing and many more years of nothing much. Instead she fed him full and talked to him about the kinds of wild plans only a certain kind of 76-year-old could still be crazy about. When the sun started to go down, Eve placed a pan of filberts in the oven to roast, and Joe decided to go for a run. He borrowed a pair of her late husband's shorts. It had already been 12 fast years. She didn't mind, although Charlie probably would have.
Joe heard his bones creaking as he ran. He was too out of breatheven to smile, by the time he reached the first stoplight, but he didn't pass another person anyway. When he got back to 20 Rubio Street, cooling & still clean, too old for sweat, Eve's neighbor let him in the front door and he ascended the stairs slowly and looked through the screen door into the apartment, imagining he was about to meet her again for the first time. He wanted to stay in the moment, until he imagined the perfect first thing to say to her, to make the best impression, to take her arm unawkwardly and have the wrinkles disappear and the time turn back. But the smell of filberts was increasing in the doorway, so he went inside and turned off the oven. He put the uneaten tomato in the fridge. Then he sat on the edge of the pullout couch, on white sheets Eve had cleary made up for him will he was out. He pulled off his shoes and leaned over to open a window to the frog sounds and dark breeze. He pushed down on one of the pillows so that it released a puff of laundry-soap-scent. The same as she used 40 years ago. Then Joe stood & straightened the wrinkle he'd made on the sheet. He went quietly into Eve's room where she was already asleep at 8 in the evening. He lay down beside her, removing the TV guide from under her hand and interlocking his fingers with hers, without waking her.