This is nothing. A yellow shirt maybe brown with a stain from some fudge or something Michael cooked last night for forgiveness. I should wait to say that. It was nice of him but I just prefer to cook myself. I should tell you about it all first, shouldn't drop you inside like this.
The kind of person wears elastic pants, sometimes pleated, with the bands at the ankles to keep-out cold, under soles and stuffed in shoes. I don't wear heels and big deal neither do a lot of women, even if they are moms. But that's not really the point, cause it's the heels on my feet—my feet—what do they matter? I've been trying to answer what do they matter for three years. Exactly three. I was in a shop—a fabric shop—picking lace for panties. And I wanted to know—does Michael like pink or yellow or black and I asked the man next to me—and he said What does it matter? And I asked the lace what does it matter and the man answered It doesn't matter. I bought the yellow lace.
Michael prefers pink and black in combination. Of course I prefer yellow. So I was wrong from the beginning but I said what does it matter to Michael and he seemed to think it did. He said he needed a drink to think things through. He said, If we're gonna have this conversation. I said let's not. He said okay but we didn't have sex again for another four nights and I took that as a bad sign. Plus, the night we did have sex I wasn't wearing panties.
Like today at the grocery store—purple grapes or green—fresh pears or canned—sliced carrots or baby? When did I stop pushing the cart to stare at the tomatoes? The guy behind me recommended Scott's toilet paper before he shuffled past huffing. He was apologetic, though, when the grapes went rolling off the cart from his shove. Picked each grape from the floor, even tried one. I thought that took nerve—the way he bowed to me. My knees buckled. Please, it doesn't matter, I'll get more.
He looked from the floor. It doesn't matter? Why doesn't it matter? I don't know, why does it? Because it's rude. He handed me a grape, as if I should do something important with a dirty grape, like eat it. So I did. I repeated, then, without meaning to, Because it's rude. But more like a question. Because it's rude? He stared at my toilet paper which made me ask, still chewing on the dirty grape, What are you staring at? Your toilet paper. He said he liked Scott's but was making the switch to Charmin. I noted that he had recommended Scott's not three minutes before. Then he asked me for coffee and I accepted.
I'm only going to say what I ordered because I'm trying to understand what matters. No one would care, I used to think, what coffee I drink—black with a bit of steamed milk—but then he says the coffee I drink matters. I let the milk film my upper lip, just to see what would happen. Nothing.
Michael wouldn't have it when I told him I talked about nothing with a stranger. He said he wants to know who it was, and why. I said there is no why, just ordered coffee, do you want to know what kind? I don't care. I go to brush my teeth when he barges the bathroom door mid-way through my brushing, green goop all over my teeth, and asked what I was doing with a stranger? I'm sure I looked the ass when I spit the toothpaste out, rinsed, and shrugged. I didn't have an answer and I wanted to maintain a clean mouth.
It doesn't matter. I said it because he couldn't sleep and the lack of snoring kept me from sleeping. He didn't say anything so I repeated, It doesn't matter. Stop saying that. So it does matter? He rolled over and shook my shoulders. You know this is really starting to...
I interrupted.
I know—right—it pisses me off too. Trying to figure this out. Like eggs. Eggs? Yeah, do you like them scrambled, fried, easy, or boiled hard? Would you just stop? But which is it?
Sunny-side up. I didn't know that. Tomorrow I'll make them sunny-side, and from now on, now that I know.
He didn't get it, fell asleep in an exhaustion I thought not important. I changed the toilet paper and he didn't notice, the roll facing out instead of in, pulling. I cooked eggs. He said I like these, thanks. It's good? It is, with the cheese and everything. Yeah, well, I guessed on that part. Velveeta? Yeah.
I scrubbed the dishes once Michael finished and made my own eggs—two—hard boiled. I thought nothing and called Michael at work, who also thought nothing, especially nothing about me calling. I have to go. Okay. Then I did the dishes again, took some clean ones from the cupboard, tried to pick the ones we'd eaten eggs on, but I couldn't tell, so I just cleaned all the plates. It bothered me some, cleaning like that, telling myself it didn't matter. Then I took a nap.
Heather Palmer writes the thoughts that run. She studies at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in the MFA writing program, and has published current or forth-coming work in Elimae, No Posit, Lark Magazine, Fiction at Work, Storyglossia, Lamination Colony, Omphalos, and Willow Swept Review.
Comments (closed)
Mr. stuka
2011-02-01 21:39:47
hey heather... i miss seing ya i hope all is well. hit me up sometime bud. take care
Terry
2012-01-30 22:56:10
It's still snowing with me. Not a heart attack or stroke though. You shake me up somehow every time. Well, nearly.. Lotsa stories in those eyes. Keep tell'in 'em. They're real.