“What’s that?” I’d said to Sven, as I walked in the kitchen door.
There was an opened card on the island next to his dusty lunch box.
“It’s an invitation for an open house.”
“An open house?”
“Yeah, it’s from the Smith’s. It’s for all the contractors and their wives.”
“Oh. Are we going?” I’d said, reading the invite that said something about 4:00 and wine and cheese.
“If you want to,” he says.
“Sure,” I said.
“They’re real nice. They’re both psychiatrists you know.”
“Yes. I know,” I answered.
Sven had told me that they were both psychiatrists about a thousand times, over the course of the project.
I think it’s gonna be all right.
Yes, the worst is over now.
The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball.
Remember that song?
It was by the Cyrkle.
I was doing the dishes with my brother, Calvin. I was washing and he was drying. Only he wasn’t drying. He was too busy snapping me with his towel.
And we were singing along with The Cyrkle.
But we knew the words.
I was sitting on a chair holding a coffee cup the size of a thimble.
It was filled with black gold.
I took another sip.
My ears began to ring.
“Would you like some more?” she says to me in her thick Portuguese accent, long shiny black hair, dark eyes and bright white smile. She was holding a beautiful porcelain coffee pot in her hands.
“No, thank you,” I stammered.
I covered my doll house cup and saucer, containing what I later learned to be, espresso.
One Friday evening, not so long ago, Sven decided to change a light bulb.
It was the one on the fan in our bedroom.
The one that is next to the skylight, way up there on the cathedral ceiling.
Therefore he brought a ladder upstairs to do his handy work.
“Do not take that away,” I said.
One should never let an opportunity such as a ladder in one’s bedroom slip away.