25.05.06 - 3:28 a.m.
come home late, in the door like a shot. turn off the porchlight and the paranoia that you were being chased up chestnut. take a long bath, your second in two days, and when you get out turn up the heater in your room. way up, to three bars. listen to the oil hiss. put on fancy underwear that you reserve for time spent with other people. search for precisely the right t-shirt; question repeatedly why you don't plan outfits for wearing when you're alone. get offended. put on the shirt your mother got in florence in 1976. it is the same color as her eyes and, thereby, the same color as yours. the shirt is threadbare in places, torn at the shoulder seam and small. the flowery design and FIRENZE were printed off-center and as a child, you stared at your mother's chest trying to make the letters align themselves with her clavicle, but it never happened. the letters now sit crooked on your chest. you realize that your mother could be dead and you wouldn't know until your next phone call went unanswered. sit on the bed with a needle and thread, pointe shoes and elasticized ribbon. measure twice and sew, then slip the shoes on your feet. tighten the laces and tuck in the bow. wrap the ribbons around your foot; position the elastic at the back of your ankle to support your achilles tendon. tie them off on the inside and lay back with both feet up in the air. admire your feet, not because of the classic pink bloch serenades but because it's 3am and other than cleaning house which would wake up your husband you have nothing better to do.