She has outdone herself again. The table setting matches the red glitter on my wine glass. She looks at me and she smiles, because she knows what I’ve been through yet she never mentions it.
The hachee is so good.
She gets up from the table of six because she can never sit still for five seconds; like me, she can’t even sleep for longer than two hours.
He asks me about my books, and my mother says that one of the books is schizophrenic. I can’t even muster up the energy to laugh. As if an inanimate object such as a book can be schizophrenic. When he asks, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know that I’ve been married, even though my wedding took place in the backyard he looks upon out the french windows.
It’s about a girl? Or a man?
A woman, I say, and his girlfriend says, I could have told you that.
I tell him about the book and he makes some comment about the fictional character spiraling into nutstown, making light of her unstable mind.
The lady of the hour is not back yet, though I don’t know if she would have said anything. My mom knows, and says nothing. She is sitting right there, and says nothing. I could stand up for myself, but I just don’t fucking care. The crazy girl that no one expects to be crazy has everything: beauty, success, happiness, so how can she possibly be crazy?
Merry Christmas, I say, kissing his cheek. It’s so wonderful to see you.