Maude doesn’t think my hair looks orange.
We (she) pumped up the mattress until it was crinkly and turgid. Ew, can I use that word here?
Boston looks like Monopoly. A board game: all the majestic apartment buildings on either side with the train pulling you along this never-ending street. Adults in their carrrs playing at parenthood and real life.
I asked the woman with her dog (a mysterious mutt, but probably a hot dog, at least in part) if she wanted to sit down but she reluctantly said no.
Across from us a fiancée (or married already) - dark hair in a posh semi-couette, nails ready to bite, the skin taut against her bones and the finest aquiline nose - talked insurance coverage while her bespectacled beau stroked the black fur on her neck. “It isn’t a neceh-ssity.”
Maude’s chocolate bunny only has its legs left, or some indistinct base.
We ordered Pad Thai and Kao Soi from the place across the road. They chatted in a corner and eventually moseyed along to the front counter. Yes? Um we called for take-out. Last name trop compliqué; they looked us up by phone number.
I ordered a Thai Iced Tea too because they had it. She poured big syrup and the orange on top.
Almost paid in dollar coins.
We came home and watched Tu dors Nicole. I’ve got a crush on the drummer, his puncturing stare.
When I got off the T I realised I didn’t know which apartment to ring at. So I passed the yuppy restaurant with pushcarts in the window and pressed Kent #6 (no answer) before checking my Facebook screen capture and remembering it was next door.
I woke up at seven today and peed for about an hour.
My hair looks exactly like - yes, that’s it, this is the analogy I’m sticking with - the orange of my tea.
