![]() When we returned, he asked if I was going to be all right or should he stay over? I did not want him to think I’m cheap. He held me gently as I had a long cry on his burgundy cape. I told him of people who were cruel to me. Afterwards, we went for a walk in the park, where I really opened up to him. He gave me a pedicure and painted my nails. He admired the periwinkle wallpaper in the hall and loved the silk roses in my room. Had I redecorated? I gave him a tour of my place, which smelled better for the potpourri that simmered on the stove. I returned to stand on a scale and nibble on a Klondike bar. To cheer myself, I walked to the Shoe Emporium and bought twenty-six pairs. I fixed a bowl of emerald vichyssoise and finished off a bag of chocolates. I must’ve been out for a long time, because when I woke the bar was silent and I was famished. When he finished, he poked my left arm with a needle and slipped away while I slept. “Frankie say,” he warbled in a voice that was not unpleasant. He fell into a rhythm of music from the bar. Did I feel irritable most of the time? Did I cry a lot? I answered yes to all of his questions. Yambo told me, until recently, only women received hormone replacement therapy, but men could reap its benefits too. I served him a bowl of my best Bouja, loading it with cabbage, rutabagas, and beans and seasoning it with pickling spice. He carried his massage board under one arm and a black bag under the other. The next day, a Sudanese body-builder named Yambo arrived. You told me this therapy would open windows in my world. I only hoped you did not take me for a dilettante. I’d never heard of it, but was interested in improving my health. Do you remember that night, D_? You called to ask if I knew of the curative powers of hormone replacement therapy. I was about to give up, when you came into my life. The soup was too thick and the light too dim for puppetry’s sake. Once, Maurice invited me to his trio’s quarters for a bowl of potage velours and a show of shadow puppetry, but I found the evening distasteful. They’re pale brown and radiate a farm-like odor. He creates light bulbs that look like chickens’ eggs. My landlady’s a Czech whose husband operates a glassworks in the basement. Until recently, my walk-up was a dark place with an unpleasant smell. The Earl Grey ripples to bass notes from the music below. At night, I come home exhausted and warm myself with a cup of tea. They go gaga over my chicken gumbo.Įach day, I work without rest. The people welcome a hot bowl of my chowder. ![]() In the West, where the weather is warm, my neighbors would’ve howled at my occupation, but here life’s a perpetual icebox. When you want to go to it.”ĭuring the day, I peddle soup door-to-door. The bar attracts a curious crowd, including a trio of bouffant-haired Frenchmen, whose leader, Maurice, twirls a silver-tipped cane and sings in a soft contralto, “Relax! Don’t do it. Since moving here from the West, I’ve been living in a walk-up above the “Pleasuredome” karaoke bar, where music by ‘80s glam rockers “Frankie Goes To Hollywood” rattles my floorboards.
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