Dear C,
On Saturday, we went through our typical routine: you greeted me at the door and gave me a kiss and I followed you inside and put the kettle on for tea and set the table as you spoke with me about what you had prepared: guacamole (the avocado not ripe, too much cilantro), egg salad, the difficulties of procuring groceries, how busy the week had been: something to do almost every evening: a package to drop at FedEx. You did not believe the peach was mealy till you tasted it and you served me frozen cupcakes that you didn't wish to eat yourself. You told me, again, how your mother-in-law reminded you of the Beauty Queen of Linane, and how her distaste for you rubbed off on your husband during your first months of marriage. It took two years to recover. Last week it had been chilly but today it was hot and the carpet-cleaners had come so the carpets were covered in paper. You wondered why your daughter dresses as she does: "Does she look in the mirror?" I then commented on my own problems with appearance. You noticed my yellow sandals. You were wearing blue ones, the same that had arrived too small a couple months ago. You gave me the small pair as a gift although they were too large for my feet and they reside, unworn, in my closet. I ate half the mealy peach and am surprised, in retrospect, that out of worry over rejecting your gift I consumed it. You said my fidgeting was distracting. I responded that I have always fidgeted. You seemed hurt and thanked me for coming, and I said, well, I think this time is important, and you agreed. I mentioned I was in a writing class and you said my writing will be more important than my painting. I read a piece aloud on Monday; they said I gave them blue-balls: "how do you feel" they asked. I thought my descriptions displayed this. It's the "I" that sees. In an earlier piece, they noticed I didn't include smell. Your apartment smells of age although this isn't bad. There are always lemons and pomegranates in the bowl.
Love