Let me hand you an egg

hidden falls 003

 

Here’s a story.  As good or as bad as any other.

 

A woman wakes up.  The light coming into the room is grey.  She makes coffee and starts her project. Which is late. 

 

She wants to do any number of things.  Mostly she wants to run and write.  She wants everything to be all right with her world. She wants the sun to shine but not to be too hot.  She wants to lose weight and figure things out. She wants to garden. Go to the gym. Go for a run. Go to the bagel store and buy bagels. But she doesn’t do any of these things.  She works on the project. Which is late.

 

The man wakes up. Gets his own coffee.  Visits the woman and the project.

 

Later the man comes out into the kitchen. The woman makes sausage for breakfast. Wants to discuss what each of them are going to do that day.

 

She tells the man she doesn’t know what she’ll do. 

 

What she thinks is that she is probably at the bottom of her career. Not the top, not the middle. Not even the starting place. The bottom.

 

She tells the man she has to finish the project.

 

He begins to tell her what he will do that day. Explains his plans for the patio which looks like shit and has always looked like shit. Its one crowning glory is a lot of Christmas lights hanging so it’s kind of like a fairy land of lights in the cobwebbed rafters and a mess of dog furniture down below. It would be a perfect patio if you were a spider and you lived in the rafters. But you don’t.

 

The woman starts cooking sausages so they can pick at food rather than sitting down to eat breakfast together.  It’s what she does on mornings when she has a project or a thing on her mind.

 

The man is explaining his plans for the day/patio and asks the woman to repeat what he’s said.

 

She repeats the half she heard before she zoomed off.

 

She tells the man to take it easy on her.

 

He says they can find stuff for the patio at yard sales.

 

The woman does not say that they never go to yard sales and probably never will and that yard sales make her sick.  They remind her of her own days of poverty and of being unwanted and plus she doesn’t like looking at other people’s junk.

 

The man stirs his coffee and waits for her to listen.

 

She says this is like the other night when you had too much to drink. 

 

The man stands up then.  He can see the conversation veering off course.  He pours himself some more coffee and tries the sausage.

She says it’s a bit weird, cheese is sliming out of it.

 

You like cheese he says.

 

On other days, she says.  Not these days.

 

What are these days? He asks.

 

These? She gestures at the patio with its dog run over furniture, its fairy lights, at the whole house full of mess and unfinished projects. These are the days I was supposed to be writing. I’m at the bottom of a well, she says.

 

Here, he says, if you want to stay down there, let me hand you an egg.

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Published in: on September 6, 2014 at 9:20 am  Comments (1)  

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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. Kate, I just finished reading James Tate’s book, “Ghost Soldiers,” and in an interesting way your bog today reminds me of his special brand of absurd and ironic humor.
    Sarah B. and I look forward to seeing you at the Red Hen Anniversary brunch.
    Meanwhile, let me hand you a sausage!


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