I’m creating a sandwich. Not just a normal sandwich. Rather, with Dr Frankenstein-like commitment, I aim for the ultimate conglomerate of tastes and textures. You wheel into the kitchen and ask why I’m still eating. I look down at my stomach: its growing roundness: and wonder the same thing.
These hands, I think to myself. These hands used to make things. Numbers. That people paid for and enjoyed because I made them so well. Where are the burns and the stains of industry now?
You, on the other hand, I have never seen so busy. Now that our house is sufficiently full of curtains and surfaces and things on ledges, you shift outside, looking at my depleted front garden, and the porch. You’re moving slower than when I first met you, but far more deliberately.
The paint’s peeling off the bricks on the doorway, you say.
Really? I’m not listening. I’ve been on the phone all morning, trying to convince my customers that their numbers will actually be completed by next week.
We should repaint it, you say. It’s the first thing people see, after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment