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Show Woodworth/125 to making the windows stay open, to making the oven door stay closed. Mornings are lists are errands. Nights are cleaning and scrubbing. Rachael comes over and they drink beer, fix the sky light in the bathroom, and lie on the floor of the living room, talking. Summer comes suddenly, and their shirts stick to them with sweat, hair needs washing daily, sound is lost behind a muffler of humidity. arty walks to work, the air pushing down on her like a hand, her face and hair damp in two blocks. Ten days before the phone company can come. Thkn a week, then five days. She tells herself that he will call soon, it's just that he doesn't know how to reach her. Home from work, through the Park. Seems like it stays light forever- But there is nothing to do with evenings in the city. At home, she could walk outside. Swim at the Grayson's. She eats dinner by herself, book or magazine open by her plate. At first on the living room floor, then at the kitchen table that she salvages from Rachael's basement. But then, again, back on the floor. Head propped on arm. She reads, eats, waits for dark. The rooms echo with quiet. No television, not even the sounds of her parents moving somewhere out of sight. The evenings seem elastic, stretching as she tries to pull them to an end. Too tired too lazy for chores. Everything is pretty much clean, put away. She tires of waiting for Gary and buys furniture - just enough to tide her over - at the Allston flee market. No calls. It seems like it's been months since she moved, and she calls riom©*-"Ruth sounds light, cheery. "Hi." "Hi." "Well, how are you doing?" she asks. Her mother sighs. "We're doing fine. Really well, actually. |