I can hear the humming of small cars zipping around small,
tightly curving roads; the idle buzz of sun-soaked conversations. This is odd because I am not in a roadside café
in Italy, but in my third floor apartment’s foyer in the suburbs southwest of
Chicago. It’s three o’clock on a Sunday
morning. The roads outside are not
busy. The neighbors below us are 87
years-old, they’ve been asleep since seven.
Our neighbors to the left just had a baby that, to my knowledge, is not an
extraordinarily gifted mimic. Marilyn
and I have no neighbors above us or to the right; we live in the top-right corner
of the building.
She must have fallen asleep with the television on again.
Coat in the closet.
Shoes by the door. I pull a handful
of grapes from the cluster on the kitchen counter and start flipping them into
the air. I stand, head tilted back and
slack-jawed, as the first grape falls and bounces off of my check and onto the
floor. I bite thin air when the second
one hits my lips before joining the first grape on the floor. I catch the third and then drop the next
three before deciding I might still be too drunk to properly play with my
food. I shovel the last four into my
mouth pointblank and decide I might be too drunk to be properly conscious. In the far corner of the kitchen, atop the
counter and nestled between the coffee maker and the toaster oven is a
photograph taken of Marilyn and I in cooking class after a particularly
spectacular failure. The right half of
my face is dripping the internal workings of a wild berry pie. Little bits of crust sit suspended in the
goo. Marilyn is bent over the counter
laughing and I am wide-eyed, not fully comprehending how the pie got from the
counter to my face. The picture is a commemoration
of one of my favorite moments with my wife.
It is, however, misbehaving at the moment. Instead of standing still incased in amber,
as good pictures should, it is heaving and laughing and looking around for an
explanation. I can hear Marilyn’s voice,
gasping for air between fits of laughter and ridicule.
How…how did you…
Behind me, I still hear sporty European coupes whirring through
curves. I turn and I see sporty European
coupes whirring through curves. Abstract
black humanoids gesture lazily in time with the buzz of conversation. A waitress sets down a tray of hors d'oeuvres
before wandering over to another table.
Smooth saxophone flows from the living room. There is now a vaguely cubist jazz club rendered
in greens and reds and in full-swing hanging to the left of my entertainment
system.
It occurs to me that my being drunk might be shielding me
from the worst of the shock of seeing all the paintings and photographs in the
house coming to life and that Marilyn, who is in all likelihood sober, might be
having a harder time with the situation at hand.
I stumble up the stairs and find shreds of Grandma Addie Millar
resting on the carpet below an enthusiastically disemboweled hand-carved wooden
frame. A few scrapes lead toward our
bedroom.
After seeing the finished oil portrait, Grandpa Frank had
said it captured Addie’s essence. After
seeing the state Marilyn left it in, I assume it captured her lip as well.
