After the man, comes the womanpublished: 2009-10-20
She is about that same middle age, still far enough removed from menopauze. She has hot flashes though, fits of rage. She doesn’t particularly like herself anymore. She wonders, even, whether she ever did. But she only has now. And now is the day she wakes up thinking she may well be happy. She knows how to. She has a tiny little white dog. Even just considering the sight of herself with her dog makes her grin. See because she herself is big and fat. It bothers others more than it bothers her. She thinks she looks okay. Her brother once said she has this “air” to her. “The kind of air people that feel really good about themselves have,” he said. And he said it as if she shouldn’t.
Today, she is going for a walk on the beach. With her brother and her dog. It is a beautiful day. They are going to be a funny sight. Her brother is very, very skinny. And I mean very. Her dog likes to run around her. He darts left right and center like a hysterical cotton puff. His little tongue flaps along with his ears. The part she finds particularly endearing is when he drops to the ground. An ambush. Flop! on his belly. Legs and arms straight to the side. He looks like a mini tiger-rug. The ones with heads on them? And then he jumps back up.
They were doing okay, she and her brother. They started off side by side. But they are now separated by more than two meters as they walk. Bringing up the inheritance was not a good idea. There was nothing. Less than nothing. A debt.
Puff ball saves the day, she thinks. Even her brother laughs on seeing him Flop! on his belly. Legs and arms straight to the side. But the little dog is hers. It is her he is running around, not him. It is her, he looks at. Adoringly.