The Woman Becomes Unfortunately Ill
She is completely filled with love. Filled with it, like a heavy sponge.
Sometimes she cries for absolutely no reason at all. She owns a small dog, and feeds it half of whatever she eats, except for chocolate, which she knows is very bad for dogs. She eats a lot of chocolate.
When she left her home for the week the dog saw her suitcase and began to follow her around the house whining. She consoled it by hugging it and telling it repeatedly that she would be home in five days, and she loved it very much, and she wanted to take it with her, but dogs weren’t allowed in hotels, and she would miss it very much while she was gone. The dog, of course, didn’t know what she was talking about, but it could sense the fear in her eyes and the high pitched notes of stress in her voice, so it continued to whine.
She thought this was because the dog loved her. It didn‘t of course. Dogs do not feel love.
When she pulled out of her driveway the next morning it was only after a long night of seriously considering calling off the trip in order to stay with her animal, which was curled up on a bed of pillows next to the sliding door. She had finally decided to pay the neighbor double to stop by twice a day rather than the previously discussed once in the evenings.
She wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t have to. It wasn’t just her dog, the city terrified her. She had gone once to Chicago with her parents when she was fifteen, and she had only left the hotel room for meals.
It was a seven hour drive to Seattle from where she lived. She made five stops along the way, twice for gasoline and three times for snacks.
She wore sandals, the kind her father had called “jap-flaps.” While boarding a bus in the Metro Tunnel she cut the top of her foot on the step. She doubled over in pain. No one asked her if she was okay, she noticed.
In the meetings she wore shoes, and limped from her sore foot. She sat next to a tall good-looking man with a black suit and a two-day-old stubble. He smiled at her twice during the meeting, and afterward, while he was speaking with two colleagues from his office, she approached him and asked what he was doing for lunch. He told her that he was busy and would probably miss lunch. She chuckled and told him she probably would too.
When she walked away the man made a joke about her weight.
The woman walks out of the meeting room and pushes the elevator button with the down arrow. Pushes it again even though it is lit. Walks out of the hotel lobby, across the wood and tile floors. Pauses for a moment before entering the revolving door. Walks three blocks to a cafe to order a sandwich. Sees a homeless man. Gives him all the money in her pocket, which amounts to three dollars and forty-six cents. Thinks about her dog.
She will not attend the final day of the meeting because she will contract a viral infection from the cut on her foot.
Sometimes she cries for absolutely no reason at all. She owns a small dog, and feeds it half of whatever she eats, except for chocolate, which she knows is very bad for dogs. She eats a lot of chocolate.
When she left her home for the week the dog saw her suitcase and began to follow her around the house whining. She consoled it by hugging it and telling it repeatedly that she would be home in five days, and she loved it very much, and she wanted to take it with her, but dogs weren’t allowed in hotels, and she would miss it very much while she was gone. The dog, of course, didn’t know what she was talking about, but it could sense the fear in her eyes and the high pitched notes of stress in her voice, so it continued to whine.
She thought this was because the dog loved her. It didn‘t of course. Dogs do not feel love.
When she pulled out of her driveway the next morning it was only after a long night of seriously considering calling off the trip in order to stay with her animal, which was curled up on a bed of pillows next to the sliding door. She had finally decided to pay the neighbor double to stop by twice a day rather than the previously discussed once in the evenings.
She wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t have to. It wasn’t just her dog, the city terrified her. She had gone once to Chicago with her parents when she was fifteen, and she had only left the hotel room for meals.
It was a seven hour drive to Seattle from where she lived. She made five stops along the way, twice for gasoline and three times for snacks.
She wore sandals, the kind her father had called “jap-flaps.” While boarding a bus in the Metro Tunnel she cut the top of her foot on the step. She doubled over in pain. No one asked her if she was okay, she noticed.
In the meetings she wore shoes, and limped from her sore foot. She sat next to a tall good-looking man with a black suit and a two-day-old stubble. He smiled at her twice during the meeting, and afterward, while he was speaking with two colleagues from his office, she approached him and asked what he was doing for lunch. He told her that he was busy and would probably miss lunch. She chuckled and told him she probably would too.
When she walked away the man made a joke about her weight.
The woman walks out of the meeting room and pushes the elevator button with the down arrow. Pushes it again even though it is lit. Walks out of the hotel lobby, across the wood and tile floors. Pauses for a moment before entering the revolving door. Walks three blocks to a cafe to order a sandwich. Sees a homeless man. Gives him all the money in her pocket, which amounts to three dollars and forty-six cents. Thinks about her dog.
She will not attend the final day of the meeting because she will contract a viral infection from the cut on her foot.
posted by sean_garmire at 3:45 PM
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