Another Digression

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I know, my dear readers, that I said there would be only one digression.

Sue me. It was a long night.

Pornography

Men are visual, the pornographers tell me.

A bead of soft blue glass rolls across my hand…like a tear, like a wish. Beautiful. Magical. Arcane.

It had been lurking in the pocket of fresh-washed trousers; I don’t remember finding it anymore.

Perhaps I didn’t. I really can’t say for sure now.

The blue is startling, like a Nordic eye in sunlight. Like an early morning sea. I know this blue. Cerulean.

It was the color of the sheets we lay across the day I said what I should not have, and thus it is the color of the long slow whispered decline that inexorably followed.

I don’t remember the exact words I used or even what I was trying to say to her. I remember the sheets. No, I remember the blue. Cerulean.

The glass bead stalls, resting on my life line. Silent. Smooth. Perfect.

One day will I remember the bead, or simply that it was Cerulean?

Damn pornographers.

 

Balance

 

I watch the lawyer’s fingers, thick and clumsy, leafing through photocopies and printed x-rays. Coarse, hands like an ancient stonemason who’s been misplaced. He talks as he leafs. I understand no more than half. He speaks quickly. Iraqi I think.

He slaps the folder down next to another and brutally opens a third. The pink folders lay like scales… weighing, measuring out pain, time, effort, loss.

The folders seek to balance justice again banality, fairness against hysteria. They will never read true, they will never reach a point where all behold them and say “Yes, this is right.”

Can I ever make him understand what this year has cost me? Can I make the folders portray it. Can the scales be balanced?

Even I myself will never really know. Never.

He writes down a number on a pad and turns it, I read it. Shrug. Nod. More writing.

What else can I do? I will never really know balance again.

 

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