A Prisoner of Paradise

A Prisoner of Paradise By Christopher Cooper Raindrops make moon craters in the dust undecided moisture steam past the window sills as a teakettle tries to keep pace. It is the perfect kind of day for her to sit, in schoolmarm fashion, wire rim glasses caught on the hook of her nose. She uses a small pen wearing the logo of the last town they had been in. I will never stroll outside this house without him. Makes a list, she never plans to finish.  Go out into the garden, salt all the invading slugs. Stop by to critiques the mayor's wife's sequence gown; That the mayor wore last Halloween, three years ago. Ask the storekeeper once again about the gaudy pearl earrings in shape of a cross. I know he would have bought them for me. She frantically searches for the matching necklace that used to be locked in her hand-painted jewelry box. She stops and looks into the mirror adjust her French-braids once more, redefines her faded blue eye shadow and applies just a little more lip rouge. He never liked me to wear too much. Now ready, she goes off to set a place for him at the table and waits formally to receive her unattending dinner guest. Struggling with her tears, resign to the patience of his reincarnation, waiting for the odor of his breath. She pretends to be appalled at his last lewd wish on her sixty-first birthday. "Yeah sexy young lady after forty-two years are you still in the mood?" In his nakedness he finished his statement, "I am." Written March 27th, 2002 © on Mar 27 2002 08:31 AM PST   0 • 8