Out of This World
Phone rings with a clang. Rotary dial. I’m in my hide out.
“Marta. You have to come up for air.”
“Mom. No can do. I’m only half way through the series. I’m just about finished the night. Morning will be tomorrow and the next day. Then, the afternoon. I have to be authentic. No contact. Please…I’m six days in and it’s perfection.”
“Marta. It’s abstract. No one will know.”
“Mom. I will know, and the paintings will feel it. This is an important gig.”
“You’re not an astronaut, Marta. You were born in Hamilton. People will feel Hamilton.”
“Not if I don’t. What do you want anyway? What’s the crisis?”
“No crisis. Your brother is in town on business and I’m cooking dinner for all of us. Be here tomorrow at 4.”
“We’re not talking.”
“Exactly. See you at 4 tomorrow. Dress nicely, and brush your hair.”
Clang! If I hang up hard enough, it sounds my point, and the force of my protest spills green paint on my good shoes. I’ll have to wear my boots: big, blue, and out of this world.