It was a warm day into the seventies and brightly cloudy. The sun seemed to be fighting to get through. It was spring like and Mayfair turned into men in shorts, Irish parties from bar to bar, the garden supplies stacked up outside ShopRite ready for sale. A couple were feeling one another up and kissing in a little crevice of the Mall’s entrance. I went about in a tee shirt while Marci kept on her light jacket.
We have Medina for the weekend. I took them to the movies and to Borders. We went to the supermarket too. The child loves her grandmom. They will enjoy one another watching endless TV, talking, and finally going to bed. Grandmom will stay with her, hug her and talk some more as the TV continues to blare.
I’ll sleep alone. Every once in a while I get a break. I’ll be able to stretch my body all over the mattress instead of up “against the fence” which means her fat ass chasing mine all night, pushing my skinny, almost non-existent ass against my senior citizen fence. The little fence has become my friend. I’ve actually used it to sleep. I wake up to its indentation upon my ribcage. The fence is there because I occasionally have such frightening or emotion-laden dreams that I throw myself out of bed. I’ve been hurt. We argue about this all the time but she says I want to get under you, feel your body and your warmth. But Baby, I say, I am under you all night, you crush me down and I can hardly breathe. And it’s hot as hell too. Give me a break. In the middle of the night I have to have an ass fight with her so she’ll rollover and I’ll have some room. I’ve even won a few. Even the mattress favors her side. My side feels like a little parallel hill, (to my body), on which I’m pitched. Thank God for the fence. When she gets in on her side the entire surface pitches her way. I am leveled and straight now except it’s a tiny space and I’ll even be pushed into a narrower one. It’s a constant fight.
