when i crunch numbers on the calculator, i pretend that my rocker boyfriend has hired me to work the books at his band's studio in portchester, because - "she's good with numbers."
instead of sitting corpo, wearing corpo clothes, i'm seated on a metal swivel chair with a pleather green cushion. i am wearing a black t-shirt, fedora, and jean shorts.
i've got smeared eyeliner, because well, we do it all the time.
as in most fantasies.
and we just finished doing it before he had to run out for some lunch with one of his buddies from back home, who just got a construction job working with the MTA, and on this particular day he is working on the new haven line, parked at portchester for lunch. the construction worker eats roast beef, my boyfriend - turkey.
i told him to bring me some coleslaw from the deli on his way back to the studio.
while he's out, i put my feet up on the desk, smoke a cigarette, and put lavender diamond on the record player.
its bright out - a sunny humid day- but i blare 'oh no' - which then moves me to get up and stomp around for a few seconds, before sitting again, to finish my smoke.
maybe i have a dog - no - i had a dog. i think about him. think about his obsession with tennis balls and me, and then my boyfriend returns with coleslaw, a surprise twinkie (cuz thats our thing) a plastic fork & the typical east coast pile of napkins to wipe the mouths of 5,000.
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