A lady I know is a sight to behold. That is her place, the small house, marigold, red trim on windows, a front door to match. (If I ask sweetly she’ll leave it unlatched.) A perfectly kept lawn, bright emerald green, and right by her front door, a girl figurine. She thinks it looks like her. I see why she does. And yet this belief is a madness, because The girl cannot move. She’s a statue, no more. The lady who lives there behind the red door is always in motion, a dervish, a swirl. She’s nothing at all like this motionless girl. The lady’s not old but she’s plenty old, really. She comes to my house and drinks and smokes freely. It’s her house or my house, and most of the time, we put ourselves through that same old pantomime: in which we are sources of comfort, not fear; in which our motives are patently clear; in which her nature both fills and eludes her; in which my nature exhausts and renews her; in which we entangle; in which we converse; in which we assemble and then we disperse. And so we are partners, at least for the day, instruments of beauty, not disarray. The statue is stock-still outside her front door. “Tomorrow,” I say, “I may come back for more.” She says we’re a caution. I say it right back. “Well,” she says. “Yep. There it is. Fade to black.”
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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