Margaret dropped her paintbrush and stared at the painting. There were large cups resting on crates and wine bottles suspended in strings.
She took a sip of her ginkgo tea and then walked away. She pretended that she was giving tours of her apartment and that the crowds were large and very impressed with the sturdy foundation. The ladies covered their mouths with each "ooh" they released. The men held their left hands under their chins and their rights on their hips and grunted, "hmmm."
When Margaret approached her bedroom, she introduced the guests to Checkers, her cat, and her weeded and soiled pink bed. After no more words could escape her mouth, she climbed onto the bed and curled up in the fetal position. Margaret was alone. When she could hear no more talking—no more grunting, no more oohing—she closed her eyes.
Only in that single realm was she ever permanently with others.
Days would go by between phone calls. Margaret didn't feel scared, lonely, or pained. She was merely jaded. In solitude, her closed eyes felt glued shut. She fell asleep.
Inside her eyes, she could see blurry fluorescent lights from a carousel ride as little boys held packages wrapped with shiny tin foil. In Margaret's world, jigsaw puzzle pieces no longer connected. Border pieces were missing and sometimes the table was too small for such a large picture.
"Did I ever tell you that your eyes glisten like urine in a toilet?"
She giggled. "No, but thank you."
"And that your eyes are like a pupil standing in a field of irises on a bed of snow?"
"Ooh, you’re the only one who lets me stick the bread all the way in the toaster, Mel."
"You always burn it, but I like burnt offerings. I guess I’m not Jesus."
"Jesus?"
No answer.
"Jesus?"
His voice rang.
Mildred's eyes exposed...