I write when the words back up in my head as I stare out the window, sentences ricocheting into space. It’s like making soup with all the vegetables in the crisper about to expire.
This was me yesterday, my head a snake pit of rhetoric firing randomly. I would write at five with a glass of wine.
At four thirty I sit to knit by the fire, a pot of soup on the stove and my words coming in for a landing. The phone rings. Good friends we seldom see are up this way and could drop by for drinks around seven. Oh God in my voice and all over the phone. Still they will come.
I finish my row with this knife stuck in my evening. I call G to tell him, so I won’t get in the car and leave. He calms me. I think, just switch direction, get fluid, go with it. I bloody have to vacuum.
I do nothing in order when I’m like this. I am a misfired pinball . I paint my toenails, plug in the curling iron, run down to the freezer for coconut shrimp, gather up candle holders and throw out any half burned, dust every surface I pass with my skirt, throw the towels in the laundry, wipe spots off the mirror with my sleeve and spit, pull out the table and set it for four, stick a metal flamingo in a plant, try to wipe cat hair off the couch with the kitchen sponge. I stop. I pour myself a drink.
G is home by seven fifteen. Every candle is lit, music playing, the table set, the fire a warm glow, wafting incense and me dressed and primped on my second glass of wine. G tells me it looks magical. He sits with his gin. We get hungry and I put the coconut shrimp in the oven. I tell G we have homemade potato leek soup and fresh bread for dinner. We have another drink. I bring out the shrimp. Later G answers the phone.
They call from Guelph looking for a restaurant, do we know one. They decided not to come. Oh is all I can think to say.
G says, you got all up in the air for nothing.