“These houses were built by people from Ukraine!” Olga says angrily. “It is strong like me. Your husband healed me. Look! No more hip problems.” She bends down in a downward facing dog yoga posture. The women clap.
She said nothing. What was there to say? I'm frequently hungover. Many of my evenings and nights are spent drunkenly fumbling around my ex-husband's property. I have successfully absconded with the garden hose, the tiller, and three yard gnomes.
Subconsciously, I sniff the air a couple of times. I am going to call the police. I am walking and, suddenly bump right into someone, that comes out of nowhere.
“Pinch it,” he said. He put his hand on my bare thigh, grabbed my hand and put it on top of his hand. “Why are the lights off in here?”
With my assistance, soon she was shitfaced for real and the media briefing culminated in a kind of battle royal, the president exiting on a telescopic ladder dangling from a Marine One helicopter like a flaccid proboscis.
He motioned towards a lounge chair in the corner of the room, and she sat down in it. He grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator across the room. He popped off the caps and held one out towards her.
I am a genius. I repeat this ten times over every morning in a mirror no bigger than a tea-towel.
Driving into the French Quarter I immediately feel the warmth of the narrow, hugging streets and the invitation to arrive in this city feels honest.
Hannah was the name that I chose for myself. It was feminine but solid, not slutty.
It was Goff who began the rubber band thing. He sent the occasional red or green projectile flying across desks and between cubicles.