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.As I fit my key into my door, theOssleys flew open and Gavin stumbled out. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlHe wore the same oversize black jeans and gray T-shirt I was accustomed to seeing him in, though he dleft off the massive hooded sweatshirt.His hair fell in his eyes as he crouched protectively next to one ofthe bags.I didn t mean to stare.I didn t want to.Whatever domestic drama was going on next door, I played nopart in it.What happens at home stays at home.My key and the stubborn lock, however, seemeddetermined to block me. I told you! Clean your shit up or it s going in the trash! Mrs.Ossley appeared in the doorway. Goddamn it, Gavin, I work all day, I don t need to come home to a pigsty! Then stay out of my room! On my other side of the tiny alley separating our houses, Mrs.Pease cracked open her door and peekedout.Mrs.Pease had lived in this neighborhood for forty years.She kept her house tidy and in decentrepair, set out her garbage at the curb on trash days and had a cat I sometimes saw in the front window.Beyond that, she never bothered me.We shared a look through the crack in her door.Mrs.Ossley looked up and saw me.She looked down at Gavin.I thought maybe she d have beenembarrassed to have been caught in such a display of belligerence.The glass she lifted to her lips amoment later showed me the reason she wasn t. Dennis is coming over tonight, and I don t need you junking up the place.Get your shit cleaned up, she continued as though I hadn t been there.I wished I hadn t.Gavin stood up.He brushed hair from his eyes.His voice had gone high and shaking. Just stay out of my room! Stay out! Your room is in my house! At last my key slid into the lock, and I vowed to treat it with oil to prevent this sort of thing fromhappening again.I closed the door behind me.My stomach churned, though it shouldn t have, really.Teens and their parents fought all the time about keeping their rooms clean.She hadn t hit him, so far as Icould tell.There was no reason for me to be involved.There was no reason for the scene to make myhands shake.Aside from the glass in her hand, the slur in her voice.The way he d cowered at first when stumbling outthe door and crouched, protecting a bulging plastic trash bag.Not everyone who drinks is an alcoholic.Not everyone who gets drunk and screams and treats theirchildren badly is an alcoholic, either.Some people would be utter assholes without the benefit of drink tolubricate their nasty tongues.I thought Mrs.Ossley might be that sort.In the end, did it matter? It wasn t my business.She did have the right to expect her home to be keptneat.Teenage boys are notorious for creating mess.She had the right to demand obedience from him,her son.But my mind kept going to the glass in her hand and the way he had cowered, though he stood tallerthan she by a good three inches. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlIt wasn t my business.It wasn t my concern.She wasn t hitting him, so far as I could see, and even if Iknew that his story about the cat scratches rang false, I also knew it was unlikely his mother had madethem.Mothers don t take razor blades to their children s arms and make perfect, aligned slashes.Kidsdo that to themselves.But it wasn t my business.Not my concern.Gavin was a good kid.Helpful.But he wasn t my kid.I went up the stairs and shed my clothes, tossing them into an overflowing hamper that was a suddensurprising reminder of just how off track I d let my schedule become.It had been days since I d thoughtof doing laundry.Days, too, since I d vacuumed or bothered to do more than toss my dishes in thedishwasher.If I needed a reminder that Dan was taking up a lot of my time, that was a good one.Thinking of Dan, I took a shower, long and hot.Relishing the steam and the scent of the special lavendersoap my mother would have sniffed at because it wasn t full of foreskins or whatever she used to keepherself from wrinkling, I washed my hair.The wet weight of it fell down to my lower back, the longest I dever worn it.Most of the time I kept it up or braided, so feeling it now, over my shoulders, down myback, heavy with water, surprised me, too.It was like I was waking up after a long sleep, or maybe slipping into a dream, delicious in its surreality.The water on my skin, the heat, the scent of the soap, the feeling of my own hands moving over mybody& I had felt them all before.Nothing new.Yet it felt new to me.I felt new to me.I ve never been much of a romantic.Facts and figures have always made more sense to me than flowersand fantasies.I love fairy tales not because I have ever believed they could be true, but because theridiculousness of the themes they promote have always seemed to prove to me I am right in doubtingthem.A princess locked in a glass tower, waiting for a prince? Glass breaks.What sort of princess waitsfor a prince to save her, anyway? A stupid, unresourceful one.Princess Pennywhistle never waited for aman to rescue her.She did it herself.A romantic nature had escaped me, but that didn t mean I was immune to the appeal of it.Just because Icouldn t convince myself of its reality didn t mean I didn t want to believe in romance.If there is a question about why him, why Dan, why did I want this man after so long without wantingany, I have no answer for it.Some people believe in fate or karma.Some believe in lust at first sight andothers have faith there is one person in the universe for each of us, one true love we recognizeimmediately upon meeting.I believe in numbers and logic, in calculations that can be proven, in results based on fact, not fate.Ibelieve space abhors a vacuum and that we are all empty, just waiting to be filled.I believe Dan and I were drawn together like stars whose gravity brings them closer and closer until theymerge to create a sun.I believe I was empty and waiting to be filled, and Dan was there to do it.And Ibelieve it could have been someone else, that we are not bound for one person in the universe, thatanother time or another man might have found the way to fill me.I believe that, but I am glad it was Danwho did.Dan had opened my eyes, but only because they were ready to open.I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold and perked my skin into gooseflesh.The softness of myrobe and the towel I wrapped around my hair added to my sense of being in a dream.So did the steamover the mirror, which I wiped away to stare at my reflection, staring for an outward sign of my inward Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlchange.I couldn t see any, of course.My eyes didn t suddenly gleam with new light, the lines around them didn tdisappear.My mouth had not all at once begun to curve upward of its own accord.Naked, I sat on my bed to comb through my hair, easing the tangles until the comb ran straight throughfrom crown to ends without snagging.The motion soothed me, almost hypnotic in its repetition.Sensual.The smoothness of my bedspread against my skin, the warmth of the night air coming in my openwindows, the soft hiss of the comb through my hair all created a cocoon around me.Made me aware.I smoothed scented cream over my skin and slid into soft pajamas.I let my hair hang free around myshoulders.Every limb felt languorous, relaxed.I lay back on my bed for a few minutes, staring at thecracks in my ceiling and for once, not counting them.I made pictures from the lines.A bird.A woman sprofile.A clock.Something had shifted inside me, something I had no words to describe.For the first time in years, Ididn t feel as though I stood behind a closed door, terrified for the moment it would open.The time hadcome for things to change [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.As I fit my key into my door, theOssleys flew open and Gavin stumbled out. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlHe wore the same oversize black jeans and gray T-shirt I was accustomed to seeing him in, though he dleft off the massive hooded sweatshirt.His hair fell in his eyes as he crouched protectively next to one ofthe bags.I didn t mean to stare.I didn t want to.Whatever domestic drama was going on next door, I played nopart in it.What happens at home stays at home.My key and the stubborn lock, however, seemeddetermined to block me. I told you! Clean your shit up or it s going in the trash! Mrs.Ossley appeared in the doorway. Goddamn it, Gavin, I work all day, I don t need to come home to a pigsty! Then stay out of my room! On my other side of the tiny alley separating our houses, Mrs.Pease cracked open her door and peekedout.Mrs.Pease had lived in this neighborhood for forty years.She kept her house tidy and in decentrepair, set out her garbage at the curb on trash days and had a cat I sometimes saw in the front window.Beyond that, she never bothered me.We shared a look through the crack in her door.Mrs.Ossley looked up and saw me.She looked down at Gavin.I thought maybe she d have beenembarrassed to have been caught in such a display of belligerence.The glass she lifted to her lips amoment later showed me the reason she wasn t. Dennis is coming over tonight, and I don t need you junking up the place.Get your shit cleaned up, she continued as though I hadn t been there.I wished I hadn t.Gavin stood up.He brushed hair from his eyes.His voice had gone high and shaking. Just stay out of my room! Stay out! Your room is in my house! At last my key slid into the lock, and I vowed to treat it with oil to prevent this sort of thing fromhappening again.I closed the door behind me.My stomach churned, though it shouldn t have, really.Teens and their parents fought all the time about keeping their rooms clean.She hadn t hit him, so far as Icould tell.There was no reason for me to be involved.There was no reason for the scene to make myhands shake.Aside from the glass in her hand, the slur in her voice.The way he d cowered at first when stumbling outthe door and crouched, protecting a bulging plastic trash bag.Not everyone who drinks is an alcoholic.Not everyone who gets drunk and screams and treats theirchildren badly is an alcoholic, either.Some people would be utter assholes without the benefit of drink tolubricate their nasty tongues.I thought Mrs.Ossley might be that sort.In the end, did it matter? It wasn t my business.She did have the right to expect her home to be keptneat.Teenage boys are notorious for creating mess.She had the right to demand obedience from him,her son.But my mind kept going to the glass in her hand and the way he had cowered, though he stood tallerthan she by a good three inches. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlIt wasn t my business.It wasn t my concern.She wasn t hitting him, so far as I could see, and even if Iknew that his story about the cat scratches rang false, I also knew it was unlikely his mother had madethem.Mothers don t take razor blades to their children s arms and make perfect, aligned slashes.Kidsdo that to themselves.But it wasn t my business.Not my concern.Gavin was a good kid.Helpful.But he wasn t my kid.I went up the stairs and shed my clothes, tossing them into an overflowing hamper that was a suddensurprising reminder of just how off track I d let my schedule become.It had been days since I d thoughtof doing laundry.Days, too, since I d vacuumed or bothered to do more than toss my dishes in thedishwasher.If I needed a reminder that Dan was taking up a lot of my time, that was a good one.Thinking of Dan, I took a shower, long and hot.Relishing the steam and the scent of the special lavendersoap my mother would have sniffed at because it wasn t full of foreskins or whatever she used to keepherself from wrinkling, I washed my hair.The wet weight of it fell down to my lower back, the longest I dever worn it.Most of the time I kept it up or braided, so feeling it now, over my shoulders, down myback, heavy with water, surprised me, too.It was like I was waking up after a long sleep, or maybe slipping into a dream, delicious in its surreality.The water on my skin, the heat, the scent of the soap, the feeling of my own hands moving over mybody& I had felt them all before.Nothing new.Yet it felt new to me.I felt new to me.I ve never been much of a romantic.Facts and figures have always made more sense to me than flowersand fantasies.I love fairy tales not because I have ever believed they could be true, but because theridiculousness of the themes they promote have always seemed to prove to me I am right in doubtingthem.A princess locked in a glass tower, waiting for a prince? Glass breaks.What sort of princess waitsfor a prince to save her, anyway? A stupid, unresourceful one.Princess Pennywhistle never waited for aman to rescue her.She did it herself.A romantic nature had escaped me, but that didn t mean I was immune to the appeal of it.Just because Icouldn t convince myself of its reality didn t mean I didn t want to believe in romance.If there is a question about why him, why Dan, why did I want this man after so long without wantingany, I have no answer for it.Some people believe in fate or karma.Some believe in lust at first sight andothers have faith there is one person in the universe for each of us, one true love we recognizeimmediately upon meeting.I believe in numbers and logic, in calculations that can be proven, in results based on fact, not fate.Ibelieve space abhors a vacuum and that we are all empty, just waiting to be filled.I believe Dan and I were drawn together like stars whose gravity brings them closer and closer until theymerge to create a sun.I believe I was empty and waiting to be filled, and Dan was there to do it.And Ibelieve it could have been someone else, that we are not bound for one person in the universe, thatanother time or another man might have found the way to fill me.I believe that, but I am glad it was Danwho did.Dan had opened my eyes, but only because they were ready to open.I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold and perked my skin into gooseflesh.The softness of myrobe and the towel I wrapped around my hair added to my sense of being in a dream.So did the steamover the mirror, which I wiped away to stare at my reflection, staring for an outward sign of my inward Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlchange.I couldn t see any, of course.My eyes didn t suddenly gleam with new light, the lines around them didn tdisappear.My mouth had not all at once begun to curve upward of its own accord.Naked, I sat on my bed to comb through my hair, easing the tangles until the comb ran straight throughfrom crown to ends without snagging.The motion soothed me, almost hypnotic in its repetition.Sensual.The smoothness of my bedspread against my skin, the warmth of the night air coming in my openwindows, the soft hiss of the comb through my hair all created a cocoon around me.Made me aware.I smoothed scented cream over my skin and slid into soft pajamas.I let my hair hang free around myshoulders.Every limb felt languorous, relaxed.I lay back on my bed for a few minutes, staring at thecracks in my ceiling and for once, not counting them.I made pictures from the lines.A bird.A woman sprofile.A clock.Something had shifted inside me, something I had no words to describe.For the first time in years, Ididn t feel as though I stood behind a closed door, terrified for the moment it would open.The time hadcome for things to change [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]