I no
longer have anything to anticipate when this care worker inserts his key into
the lock, no more daunting seduction attempts while my body lies naked beneath
disposal peach underpads, nor any rationalizations on my part. Obfuscation seems
to be an innate part of his personality, and maybe that is par for the course
if you live in the West Oak Lane section of the city, but I regret the small
moments, particularly his seizure of my wrist when I reached up to turn on my
lamp behind this HP Pavillion. That was new to me, at 56. Things you are
supposed to experience as a schoolgirl. I thought it meant there was a pathway
out of defining myself as patient and her nursing aide, and I thought too high,
climbing whatever particular ladder rung. I could write, as I normally would,
that the next African American male who so much as makes an edgewise gesture
will be heading into a massacre, but this is sandpaper rhetoric against the
fact that I wanted to be part of a couple again. Instead I have to live with
this man, who cracked me open, then reburied my body, until I can find the time
to make an exit strategy, or he beats me to it, in my own knowledge, too well
versed, of independent living.
There
is more to contort. I am too weary with sleep, clinging with broken fingernails
to a small happiness intersection, I thought something was there between us. I
genuinely did.
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