Friday, February 18, 2011
Squalor, My Love
She knew she was the kind of person who might have a collection of wrapped fetuses in her freezer.
It’s one thing to be terribly off-kilter and quite another to know it. If nothing else, she was blessed with cruel perception.
The neighbors in the building threw her double takes the few times they spotted her during the year. The deliverymen were used to passing signatures under the chain on the door. They left the packages outside. Gladly. The air was fresher, and she waited to snatch them until they thumped down the dingy stairs.
She could have fetuses, you know. Definitely.
That was the only time she climbed from the squalor. The kind of happy you couldn’t besmirch with words. He came. Drunk usually. With wiry black hair and sweatpants. When he knelt on the bed, she would bend her neck back for miles, and he would suffer. She would bend, and he would wish to sprout five more greasy hands just to take her all in.
The rest of the time, she bagged and breathed solvents from the deliveryman. That’s also why she could gather fetuses, but not babies. Her body wasn’t just hostile, it was toxic. His sperm just fell out her. Maybe the freezer would always stay filled with just ice-burned chicken thighs.
He paid her rent. So that was good.
She waited for him between long hours. Maybe she would wash her matted hair.
Her skin wandered across her bones.
It itched for the knock on the door.