There is the glass ashtray. The mangled cigarettes. The hotel room. The window open with the breeze coming in, ruffling the curtains. The breeze is lace fingers. Tiny fingers. There is the unevenly applied lipstick. The besieged housemaid. There is love. Always, there must be love. There are meshes of twilight. Wrinkle-vined hands. A wrinkled-mapped face. A geography of both Borneo and Mars. She believed in nowhere. She believed in Mars. She believed in Borneo in the daytime. She didn’t believe in Borneo at night. Night and day divided her beliefs and perceptions. She believed in angels. In love. There are empty Coca Cola bottles stacked on crates and you are surprised that she recycles. There are the paintings. All the paintings she made. Then she stopped painting. Then she started banging out stories on her portable Remington, which had been her father’s, who had been a minor journalist. The Remington is from 1932. She doesn’t like to speak years aloud, she tries to keep them covered, like blankets over mirrors. But, in this case: 1932. What are some things that happened in the year 1932? List them. 1932. Spoken aloud with bittersweet relish. She says she bangs out stories on the typewriter and never revises them. Whatever comes out, comes out. Whatever they are, they are. They are not for anyone. They are for her.
Every story has it day. This is written on a wall somewhere.