Natalie’s penchant for talking to people out of earshot and expecting
them to hold up their end of the conversation drives me to the bottle of vodka
chilling in the freezer. Why vodka doesn’t freeze is another thing I
don’t know but should. I imagine the answer is simple. But it is too
late in the game to ask questions that beget simple answers.
Otherwise she expects me to be privy to the conversations that take place in
her head. She’ll come in and say, “Did you put it away?” or “Do
you think he knows what he’s talking about?”
A few nights ago I watched her sleeping. I saw her eyes moving back and forth
beneath her eyelids, like she was trying to find someone through the windows
of a passing train.
There’s something wrong with her.
I’m mixing 7-Up with the vodka when Natalie calls from the bedroom. She
is taking her clothes off while she putters. I think she thinks we have plans.
She catches a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror and examines her backside,
gives it a slap and watches the skin ripple. She turns around. She says out
loud, “Full frontal nudity,” then skips off into the bathroom.
Originally appeared in Hobart
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