OCR Text |
Show DAD-63 making the windows shine and the buildings look white, hurting my eyes. I drank too much in those days and, before I could summon the energy to walk the stairs to my apartment, I leaned against the doorway and stared at a tree, realizing that something had happened to trees. I couldn't enjoy them anymore. I had instead to control them, memorize the light and shapes and colors in case I ever became an artist, to store them, meanwhile, someplace flat and out of reach. But there was a cat that kept rubbing itself against me and giving little cries like a doll being tipped. I didn't like cats, so I left the tree and went into my apartment building. But I didn't shut the downstairs door the way I usually do, and, when I turned to look behind me, as I always do before unlocking my door on the third floor, there she came, her face floating like cream in front of her. We haven't always gotten along, for she's quite willful, but she stayed. Fat now, from an operation and middle age, Cat sleeps in my armpit. My time with her is very important, and I'm annoyed that it's morning and the phone is ringing. It's George. He wants to see me for brunch. But no, I say, I'm due out at Fire Island this afternoon and don't have time. What town on Fire Island? he asks. I wonder if he's worried that I'm gay, so I tell him Fair Harbor, a straight town, as if it matters. Peter has invited me, saying there will be some fascinating guests, including a philosopher and a writer from France. I make it a practice to interleaf my men, and Peter is perfect for this because he understands the time and the others I put between us. I tell George that we will make plans soon, and reluctantly I ease myself away from Cat. I settle into the salt smells, wind and sun, and look at the heavily made-up dark-haired women on the ferry with me. They can't wait to parade themselves on |