houseguest
kerry she gives me perspective. these paper-thin doors—but they are such a nice shade of brown! and the gaudy rococo banister—but how whimsical, how cheerful, they don’t make em like that anymore, and how sweet is that little mailbox that even has its own door?

so few trees here—no, there’s one, young but one day its leaves will fill your window with a bottle-green glow, and did you notice some child has built little fairy houses in the dirt around it, like the ones we built out of tiny twigs like lincoln_logs in sacred secret under the boxwoods. they’ll be covered in dog piss and litter soon but right now they’re perfect.

how cramped it can feel here, how impossible to hide—but don’t you remember how lonely you were out west? and where i live no one says hello or offers to carry my groceries. instead they just break into my car.

i meant to vacuum the couch before you arrived and you’ll be covered in dog hair by the time this visit is over--but look how the lil guy trots along so proudly like he’s accompanying you through the city, you remember once he was practically feral?

this house is so dark it feels like i’m buying lamps once a week; these rowhouses are just train cars with windows in front and back--but how nice this giant east facing-window, better than that apartment in east ATL with the black mold and spiders.

hey feels like the heat is finally breaking

let’s go to rite-aid and buy haribos, happy cherries for you and twin snakes for me. we’ll turn off all the lights and watch cape_fear. can_you_handle_it?

if you’re scared you can sleep in my bed
but be warned i tend to snore 		210805
...
kerry it’s true that, at 56, the houseguest is objectively beautiful. long satiny hair and a regal nose, wide copper-colored eyes and a full lips she always paints red to hide the scar (invisible) at the corner of her mouth where a small tumor was recently removed. like the_autodidact, her gaze is steady, almost intimidating. controlling.
we were at the_diner. it was busy; the regulars were perched on the short barstools with their iced teas and reubens. the young, pretty waitresses were scurrying about with trays. 90s pop songs played on the radio.
we’d gone to the penn museum to see the mummy exhibit but it was closed that day and we were both feeling a bit dejected. our conversation drifted to men.
“what is it about me,” she said, “that attracts these dirtbags?”
a few weeks ago she went on a date with a man who lived around the corner; they both walked their dogs around lunchtime and ran into each other nearly every day. after her youngest daughter did some online research they’d discovered he had a record for selling meth. the other day she was approached by another guy who she frequently encountered at the park. he also had a record, pushing prescription drugs, but “wanted to be upfront with her, his friends said he should.” she’d said no, but i’ll see you around.
“what was he like?” i asked.
“oh you know, your typical philly guy. italian-looking. too friendly, too loud.”
“it does seem like you get hit on all the time.”
she groaned, exasperated. “all the fucking time. standing at the corner, grocery-shopping, riding the bus.” she wasn’t bragging; she was complaining.
“that never happens to me,” i said. “except if i grow my hair out long. when it’s short i’m invisible.” i wasn’t complaining either, just stating a fact. men are pigs, i thought to myself.
“you know what it is?” she had the air of a palm reader divining the future.
“what?”
“it’s an age thing. you’re too young. men assume younger women have someone. when you’re older and they see you alone, they think you’re divorced or a widow or something.”
“hmm.” i decided to believe her theory. what do i know?
“the meth-guy, he takes me out dressed up nice, then he shows up to my house in a shirt with grease stains and sweatpants. no effort whatsoever. it’s fucking disgusting.”
i finished up the last bite of my shortstack, too full but satisfied. i’d been craving pancakes, comfort food. “you know how you can tell a guy likes you? when he cleans up his house before you show up.”
she laughed. “true, true.”
“if you go to his place and he’s made his bed, you know he actually likes you.” i was referring to the_autodidact. “because he probably doesn’t make his bed every day. he wants you to see he’s got his shit together.”
she was still chuckling, nodding her head, picking at her fries. “i’ve always been with someone. i get attached. i realized i’m happier now. i’ve got my dogs, and my own house and ii can paint my walls whatever color, i’ve got my patio and plants, i could smoke a cigarette inside. if i still smoked. i can do whatever the hell i want.”
she was glowing. 		220305
what's it to you?
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