Your friends are outside. They are having a cricket fest in the backyard. It’s the end of summer and the cooler air is exhilarating. I don’t know what crickets get drunk on, but there seems to be an open bar tonight.
And here you are, staked out in the edge where the wall meets the ceiling. You haven’t moved for hours and unlike most crickets that find themselves inside, you are silent.
You are a character in a Samuel Beckett play. You are the third stanza of a Bob Dylan song. You are the green in a Frida Khalo painting. You’re the parenthesis in a Ruth Bader Ginsburg opinion. You’re the manufactured fear in a Halloween fun house. The remaining grease on a rusted bike chain. You’re Manolo Blahnik pumps on white carpet. You’re the hunger right before dinner that makes the short ribs delicious.
Here, you are all of these. In our house, alone, you can live out the needs of an introverted cricket, the wild fantasies you prefer to the strange dances they are performing outside. It’s quiet. You are not just a cricket, and I am not just the woman who sits in the room with you.
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