![]() ![]() The sun hits our faces, our eyes squint in the light, our hair billows in the wind. Sometimes, a free clinic devoted to the removal of burst capillaries. ![]() Bougainvillea the color of bruises grows across people’s fences. We get into the Porsche 911 Turbo S, bunching into it as if it were a clown car, and drive down roads and boulevards, hills and canyons, palm-frond-strewn avenues, and parking garages of shopping malls. My 100 ex-boyfriends and I hang out every day. She is there, I am here, and all my ex-boyfriends who dated me there are also here. It is three in the morning, it is three in the afternoon. In T-shirt and slip, she drinks a glass of juice, stands hunched over the sink in the kitchen that I painted seafoam green. From our Spanish-tiled kitchen, I can see my old apartment complex down the hill, a coral stucco converted motel. Our house has the nicest view in the Hills. And lastly, the largest but ugliest wing, extending behind the house like a gnarled, broken arm, is where my 100 ex-boyfriends live. The east wing is where the children and their attending au pairs live. ![]() The west wing is where the Husband and I live. The house in which we live has three wings. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |