Wednesday, December 15, 2010

hair of the dog

She had come to the diner full of purpose and ambition, her head filled with the bright complementary colors of midcentury American paintings by Hopper, but she knew it was an act, a front, and she was too tired and too poor an actress to live up to her role in the painting. So she looked out the window onto the gray street filled with cars which all looked improbably alike and she thought of champagne and crepes and chocolate mousse and espresso and brandy, she thought of the glow of polished wood and the heft of china, she thought of strongly steeped tea on damp autumn afternoons, she thought of the longing she had felt to escape from a world of ketchup on scrambled eggs and artificial maple syrup for pancakes, she thought of rare steak and raw fish and then she smelled the homefries and the coleslaw and the hamburger from the next table over, and she knew she had no home, in either world, that she could claim neither the diner nor the private chef, and so she left a dollar and some change on the table and began to walk.

in prep for the upcoming season of familial contact, books on family psychology

twelve degrees. Really. Fahrenheit.
that's -11.111111111 Celsius, if you were wondering.
(It's 12 degrees C in Dallas.)