I
suppose I can live with it after all, that a man’s mistake led to a brief
uproar and the inevitable retrenchment, so much intense back and forth. The
service coordinator, once my title also, frightened me into an essential
resignation, ashes in the sandbox, the oxygen and energy sucked out of me by my
despairing cousin; if Galahad and I are chameleons, one moment a simulation of
a couple, the next two worn out individuals who’ve time lapsed half a century, Monday
had a tinge of a high school pep rally, as if he could charge at my shrieking
and tremulous physique like a point guard. My cousin’s misery makes my
emptiness seem relatively infinitesimal. My cynical, callous side resents her
for it, but her situation is as equally a teaching tool. She married twice, the
one she’s in now with my blood relative fractured by hideous wounds, which, for
once, out of personal loyalty, the dowager shall not reveal, if otherwise to be
burdened with tight-knit bond through text only. I, by contrast, never married,
and there is nothing ironclad about a future abandonment between this man and
I.
I
did blink first, and was going to
withdraw from his employer, my current provider, but I’d have to fend off
inquiries, and my departure would have been because we did not violate the
rules altogether, and intercourse now carries too many riders, almost an afterthought.
I never really had him. The fellow simply hasn’t been laid for 15 months. The
last date I was in my fiancé’s bed is beyond my memory, 2006? The care worker found
it incredible, and there, Pam and I have a bond. She and Bill abstain, from
what inferences she offers. This you may know, which means I don’t care enough
if it gets read and I land on even more familial estrangement (my half-brother).
My sister-in-law and I had an unforgiving quarrel on Facebook, giving me
insight, therefore, about social media creating its own news. It finally
happened to me, with my nephew sleeping in his car while his trollop mother
parades her granddaughter, his child, like a trophy. Dawn, my brother’s wife,
is forever high school trailer trash, but look who’s talking, my aspirations
defeated by a former Walmart cargo-handler. I was, of course, going to go into
racial epithet mode, then considered the racer from Nederland, which is in
Colorado. I owe the man an apology for thinking he was actually native African.
No harm. Speed is a drug, like Mia Farrow’s kidney-stone liberalism.
In
comparison to my barren womb, my cousin has two children. She owns her home. I
own nothing, and yet I’m so much stronger than this whining, self-pitying
bitch, so much so that I offered to put myself in the middle, see if I can suture
her marriage into healing, drawing her and Bill out with a couple-friends
dynamic. She’s afraid I’ll spill her secrets, like Meyer’s blood guilt driving
the visions of his conscience, sans Match Point.
What Allen asks in this film
is to consider the price of adulation over and above desire, but he does not expiate
himself, distastefully trapping Scarlett Johansson as a situational victim because she gave in to an unhappy husband, simply through association, with her own parallel relationship discord. Allen loyalists deem his capture of Soon-yi to be creepy. Galahad is of the opinion that it was sick, and I'm inclined to agree. There was no letter of the law crime, but he fell on the sword against his own backlash with the mortality counter, condensing his time. It doesn't seem to make Mia any more sympathetic, curiously, hiding, as she does, as a leftist in mortal combat. Is my gratitude toward Galahad a blinder, after a fashion? Given my history as a victim of black dysfunction, our sparring match over what is genuine and isn't has been remarkable. I know him better than I ever did Frank, but he's still a shackle in a sandpit, and my mortal coil has a ton of work to do.
If I remain loyal, contrary to my inclination, and he finds other employ, a woman? I've been writing the script of an ugly, stark, care giver's murder for a long time. I may have mentioned it, even.
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