On Intimate Terms
On Intimate Terms

Summary/Abstract: Let the light slip on the row of spikes mounted on the windowsill. Let the sun shine straight ahead, from the tennis courts by the church, so that when she looks out of the window it is hard to read the temperature. Let’s suppose there are smears of cooking oil on the windowpanes that obstruct the view. Let her open the window. In her carelessness, let her catch the palm of her hand on the spikes that were mounted to deter pigeons. Let her mutter under her breath, the way people do when they have been on their own for a long time, that it’s eleven degrees. If springtime herbal fragrances flood the kitchen on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, let songbirds muster up the courage to chime in with sounds resembling pocket calculators. Let flowers reminiscent of snowdrops poke their heads out on the islands of grass on the tobogganing slope in front of the ninefloor tower block. She shouldn’t notice them. Let these plants, already wilted when they bloom, be as if trampled on by children’s feet. And in closing the window let her have the feeling that it is not just the sodden earth outside that stinks but also the garbage can inside. She may lift the lid and peek in, then take out the bin liner bag, even though it is less than half full. The lemon peel, ash, and canned mackerel will reek; let the whole thing be gross.

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