Anatomy of a Scene
The house: Inside, it’s cavernous, empty, clean, new, white. A blank slate. Full of possibilities. A dream home. The front. tick tick tick tick. It’s the sprinklers. Neatly mowed lawn. Don’t let your tires touch the grass. The back a ballet backdrop for the Metropolitan Opera House stage. Spanish moss like gossamer. Small wooden bridge. Muted tones of grey and brown and greige and green, cut in front of a sparkling blue sky. The house is on piers, built for rising waters. Though the front is restrained, uniform, built, the back can not be separated from its origins. Slavery. Freed slaves. Jim Crow. Stolen, restolen, stolen again.
The table: Long, thin narrow. More a plank than a traditional table. People sitting terribly close who should be terribly far. “You could cut the tension with a knife,” the builder said. Knives scrape on meat and ceramic. Forks stab. Ice settles.
I think our love is beautiful but it is a cheap and cruel lie.
Iceberg lettuce in a bowl with grape tomatoes.
Bottles of Ranch and Italian. Gotta shake ’em up.
Nobody bothers to disguise their anger.