I'm writing from a diner chair in my kitchen. My
computer sits on a baker's rack. This
is where I write. I spend a lot of my
free time next to this
drafty window, my chair shoved up against the garbage can. The
kitchen is the ugliest room in our apartment,
to be sure. It was ugly and out of
when we moved in, and then my roommate decided to paint it lime green
and for a
second I thought it was better, but no. It's
now just ugly andlime
green. I have a little tin sign with
quote from Eleanor Roosevelt hanging on the rack in front of me. That and pot holders.
my head is a sorry selection of liquor:
peppermint schnapps leftover from a holiday party 2 years ago, amaretto
was a gift, and Bloody Mary Mix my roommate won in an auction.
that shows up, disappears. I used to
write in a coffee shop near my house one to three days a week, but I've
trying to be more careful about my cash, and so, lately, it's been
in this uncomfortable vinyl chair, with notebooks spread on the
to me, and last-ditch liquor above.
And yet, things are well. How
goes it with you?
- - -
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of net efekt.
Read JJ's story, "My Wife in France."
w i g · l e a F