Pearl Buck had a house just across the street from her. I'm so jealous I could spit. Spit on Carlos, I mean, for being too poor to move away from Girard Avenue. After nearly ten years of marriage, we're still living in my parents' house. True, we did have our own apartment until Carlos lost his job back, but that was seven years ago. He tells me every time I ask, he's saving enough money for us to buy a house, but it hasn't happened. When it does, I doubt it'll be to Rittenhouse Square, my favorite neighborhood in Philadelphia – the square, fountains, forty foot oak trees, and lots of birds trilling in the park. Mothers and babies, too, like my “best friend,” who walks with her little monsters around the perimeter every afternoon.
Last night I was reading "The Good Earth" in bed, Carlos snoring beside me. Goodness, I wish he'd wear clothes to bed. We're not teenagers anymore. And instead of every day, we do it maybe once a week now – who knows how long that’ll last? Having the two boys will do that. But there he is, sawing away, naked as the day he was born, his hairy chest and legs rubbing up against my arms. Yeah, it still feels good. He still does it for me, but must I be distracted when I'm trying to read Pearl Buck? It's enough that the boys take up all my time. Always a hard life.
I nodded off last night to the strangest of dreams -- he returned to me, my erstwhile lover, told me his wife had run off with her mother to become a Chinese missionary. He said, Marie, let's elope while we still have the chance, case she comes home. We'll live in San Francisco, Las Vegas, maybe even Pocatello, Idaho. Always wanted to live in Pocatello, he says in my dream. And all of a sudden, we’re running through a waterfall. But then I wake up and I've got this post-nasal drip running down the back of my throat. Damn. Always a hard life.
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