The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

She’s already feeling shaky, but she reaches for the coffee beans anyway. She wants the ritual. Boiling the water, grinding the beans, setting the timer, pushing down the French press. Everything is a little bit off this morning. She can’t count on herself—her mood. This irritates her. Yesterday, everything had seemed possible; she could smell success. This morning the air smells like shit. She can’t figure out where it’s coming from. She checks all her shoes and gives up. She remembers she is out of toilet paper and considers jumping in the car, but the timer goes off. Just one sip. One bite of toast. She decides raspberry jam is better eaten alone, sans toast. She sits down to type, reveling in her gooey fingers. She has acquired a keyboard condom (that’s what he called it), which allows her to type and eat without messing up the keyboard. It seems like a very good thing, protecting her most valuable asset. Her mind wanders back to the toilet paper. Organic or Kmart variety. She also needs vinegar. She thinks about how she is going to acquire ‘business attire’ that fits over an eight-month pregnancy suit. She muses over how this became her problem. She thought commercials had wardrobe people. Suddenly, a wave of fatigue. Maybe a ten-minute nap…Her eyes land on the cover of a 1940’s Spiritual she has tacked into the wall: “Fix me, Jesus” in bright red letters, by Hall Johnson. Then to the left, “I Wish That I’d Been Satisfied With Mary.” She can’t make out the composer from the couch, only the outline of a blonde coquettish Mary emanating ‘come hither.’ The juxtaposition is confusing, like her most recent fortune cookie: Luck is helping.

Goldberg: Perseverance Alone

Goldberg: Shitballs