He [would] watch me, asking me questions, about the boys I’d kissed, my favorite boys, whether I plotted to make them love me or if they all just loved me.
He’d watch me in the mirror while I fastened my garters and brushed my hair and picked through the piles of clothes on the floor for a clean slip, asking me why I didn’t keep up with the laundry, why I didn’t pick up the clothes, whether I intended to keep the rooms.“
In 7th grade we had to dress up as an author or literary figure and give a speech. I was Zelda Fitgerald, bound breasts and all, wearing an intricate beaded flapper dress that had once belonged to my great aunt.
“I was committed to a mental hospital, where I spent the rest of my days working on what was to be my magnum opus, until I died tragically in a fire. The end.”
There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.