It’s nine o clock.
My [written above: "second"] boyfriend and his cousin are out prostituting themselves. He told me they were running errands. He calls it this because he doesn’t know that I know where all [scribbled out: "the" above "that"] [above: "this"] money is coming from. He thinks I don’t know that’s not his cousin. That Santa isn’t real. That one day, my parents will die.
I lay on the guest room bed watching a tape of a soap opera I found on top of the VCR and eating pink ice cream I’ve had out for so long it’s melted and looks like nail polish. The carton is between my legs and I’m spread out like I’m giving birth. For the bottle-blonde on the screen, the one actually giving birth, having a kid in real life would be a dream. She’s really forty-five, but on soap operas everyone is twenty-four for at least a decade. The children become teenagers in a matter of months, but the parents never age.
A little grey hair is poking out from behind her ear where the sweat probably released it.
Daytime audiences love babies but abhor actual childbirth, so the edges of the screen get foggy and heaven-like to indicate that what we are about to see is a [scribbled out: "flashb"] flashback.
The blonde is in the back garden of her home telling her husband’s brother (the doctor we just saw in the hospital) about how they never should have slept together at the wedding reception because now she’s pregnant and has no idea who the father is and she feels so guilty for not being able to resist her deep longing for him. No word yet on why she didn’t just marry the brother.
I hear tapping on the roof, an anxious student at 2:59, just as the couple descends upon the hydrangeas. A tribal beat rattles in the storm drain as they roll into the bed of roses.
I turn the [above: "volume"] [scribbled out: "volume"] up because they’ve stopped sucking face and the guy is talking now, telling his brother’s wife that although neither of them meant for this to happen, they can’t turn away now. He feels terrible but he can’t deny his feelings for her.
-He wants them to grow old together and die in eachother’s arms.
- If loving her is wrong, he doesn’t want to be right.
- He holds her head in his hands for a moment.
- A little grey hair is poking out from behind her ear where his finger just released it.
A rain drop from the ceiling slaps itself on the garden and slithers down the screen. Three more come down on the body of the television.
Everything goes as black as the soot in the fireplace.
[Scribbled out: "Waiting for the power to come back on, I get to thinking."] And now, I’m sitting in the dark, [scribbled out: "and thinking about"] wishing I [scribbled out: "could"] could light a candle. [Scribbled out: "Just so I can see something. But I know, just as everyone does, that once I light that once I light a candle you might as well start the countdown to countdown because the whole"]