Have a Seat in the Big Black Chair

I had had enough of everything during what I took to be my turn.

‘Can I just pet it,’ I said, when Tim and I were in bed, ‘instead of my taking it inside?’ But Tim said no.

And then, at the task, he pulled himself back and forth inside of me with many repetitions, enough to get to the next step for him – to stabilise the project. He was cramming rather a lot into the tiny space.

At any rate, in the aftermath, I was catching a partial view of the whitewashed brick wall through the window, and I could see the boxed Dutch blooms that needed deadheading.

The first of the daytime light was hitting the flowers hard like the big sky lightning that doesn’t quit suddenly.

This life with Tim Doll had come about abruptly and while I am on this subject – what compromises must I continue to make? What are my hopes? Think!

Tim tells me that his memories sting him to death.

I got up, dressed. Had coffee, arrived at work, made telephone calls, and sat at my desk on one leg.

Then they said, ‘Have a seat in the big black chair,’ which I did, ‘and Mr Damien will be with you shortly.’

Mr Damien has excellent posture and he reminds me very much of Tim, who doesn’t work here.

I had pangs.

When Mr Damien arrived, we talked for more than a quarter of an hour about my new stint to check in freight shipments.

The good thing is that my new job is nine to five, since I slow down at five.

The sight of Mr Damien parting his hair with his hand backfired or exploded as far as I was concerned because I guess his reaching fingers were twirling – so that I was jittery and I didn’t hear every word he said concerning the payroll data.

His hair is blond. His ears are set close to his head. His nose hardly protrudes. His mouth was opening and closing, pouring out the capsule summary of yet another list of my duties.

Well, I will try to take pride in a job well done.

To enjoy the situation will be an effort of a lifetime.