at a time.
That first morning atop the cave, my quiet reflections were interrupted by someone whistling, the first human sound I'd heard since my arrival in Mr. Crane's garden, and I turned away from the sunrise toward the house and the hill. A woman was walking in my direction on legs so long there's no way to describe them without stupid clichés. She wore cutoffs so short that a tongue of white pocket hung down each leg, and her hair was as yellow as waxed lemon rind. Like a magazine page on the move, her breasts were barely draped in twin triangles hardly large enough to suggest a bikini. I hadn't seen a woman in a long time, and what a first woman to see. She carried a gray metal bucket, and it bounced against her thigh with each step.
As she drew close, the mist rose around her like a special effect, giving the moment a sense of slow motion or of a TV show's opening credits (an impression that made more sense once I realized who she was). I wasn't sure if I should climb down to meet her or pretend she wasn't there. I hadn't been instructed on how to respond when visitors appeared at my cave, and I hadn't had any yet. Smithee, the last person I'd seen when he showed me the cave, was an employee like me, but this—I assumed—was Mr. Crane's wife, not one of his workers, and I wasn't sure if I worked for her, too, or should go about the task her husband had set me like she wasn't there.
I decided to stay on my perch and stay in contemplation, keep watching the world with utmost concentration, because that's what I was being paid for. Maybe she'd report my commitment back to her husband. I tried to keep my eyes on the sunrise and the wakening flora and fauna, but it was hard to ignore her approach. Her feet were bare, crosshatched by wet grass from her walk down the hill, and her toenails and fingernails were all painted the same shade of orange as her bikini and dangling surfboard-shaped earrings.
Oh, I'm glad I could still see in those days, and more glad that memory hasn't gone with my eyes. Thanks to my scribe, I can flip back through the days of my life in this garden and recall more than I could on my own.
She stood by the mouth of my cave on the broad, flat stone that serves as a threshold, and she brushed some of the grass from her feet but let most of it be. Then she climbed the side of the cave, easily, like she'd done it before, and sat down beside me. Her feet left wet shadows on the gray stone.
I tried to ignore her, to go about the business of my meditations like I was alone. I tried to do my job without interruption. On the branch of a tree I'd decided was cottonwood only because its flowers were white and puffy, a black bird spread his wings, revealing red shoulders, then flapped hard and rose in a spray of fine mist.
“So you're my husband's new hobby,” she said. “His hermit.”
She was facing me, but I didn't turn away from the garden. She leaned closer, warming my leg with her own, and as her heat spread over my body, I was glad for once to have the uncomfortable tunic covering my lap.
“I'm his old hobby, his wife.”
Mr. Crane had mentioned his wife was an actress, or maybe Smithee had said it, and now I realized which one: her name escaped me, but she'd been on a cop show a few years before, as the buxom young officer always wearing bikinis and maid's uniforms to go undercover. That's why she'd looked so familiar coming down the hill from the house; it was an outfit like one she'd worn in the opening credits, pushing her way through saloon doors in the midst of a brawl, bringing the whole wild bar to a freeze.
My rash escalated its itching, and it was all I could do not to scratch at my balls or throw my tunic open to catch some cool air. Mr. Crane's rule about bathing was beginning to chafe. I didn't mind smelling, but the itch was driving me mad. But with Mrs. Crane beside me I tried to bear it, though I think the strain showed on my face, because she gave me a strange sort of
That first morning atop the cave, my quiet reflections were interrupted by someone whistling, the first human sound I'd heard since my arrival in Mr. Crane's garden, and I turned away from the sunrise toward the house and the hill. A woman was walking in my direction on legs so long there's no way to describe them without stupid clichés. She wore cutoffs so short that a tongue of white pocket hung down each leg, and her hair was as yellow as waxed lemon rind. Like a magazine page on the move, her breasts were barely draped in twin triangles hardly large enough to suggest a bikini. I hadn't seen a woman in a long time, and what a first woman to see. She carried a gray metal bucket, and it bounced against her thigh with each step.
As she drew close, the mist rose around her like a special effect, giving the moment a sense of slow motion or of a TV show's opening credits (an impression that made more sense once I realized who she was). I wasn't sure if I should climb down to meet her or pretend she wasn't there. I hadn't been instructed on how to respond when visitors appeared at my cave, and I hadn't had any yet. Smithee, the last person I'd seen when he showed me the cave, was an employee like me, but this—I assumed—was Mr. Crane's wife, not one of his workers, and I wasn't sure if I worked for her, too, or should go about the task her husband had set me like she wasn't there.
I decided to stay on my perch and stay in contemplation, keep watching the world with utmost concentration, because that's what I was being paid for. Maybe she'd report my commitment back to her husband. I tried to keep my eyes on the sunrise and the wakening flora and fauna, but it was hard to ignore her approach. Her feet were bare, crosshatched by wet grass from her walk down the hill, and her toenails and fingernails were all painted the same shade of orange as her bikini and dangling surfboard-shaped earrings.
Oh, I'm glad I could still see in those days, and more glad that memory hasn't gone with my eyes. Thanks to my scribe, I can flip back through the days of my life in this garden and recall more than I could on my own.
She stood by the mouth of my cave on the broad, flat stone that serves as a threshold, and she brushed some of the grass from her feet but let most of it be. Then she climbed the side of the cave, easily, like she'd done it before, and sat down beside me. Her feet left wet shadows on the gray stone.
I tried to ignore her, to go about the business of my meditations like I was alone. I tried to do my job without interruption. On the branch of a tree I'd decided was cottonwood only because its flowers were white and puffy, a black bird spread his wings, revealing red shoulders, then flapped hard and rose in a spray of fine mist.
“So you're my husband's new hobby,” she said. “His hermit.”
She was facing me, but I didn't turn away from the garden. She leaned closer, warming my leg with her own, and as her heat spread over my body, I was glad for once to have the uncomfortable tunic covering my lap.
“I'm his old hobby, his wife.”
Mr. Crane had mentioned his wife was an actress, or maybe Smithee had said it, and now I realized which one: her name escaped me, but she'd been on a cop show a few years before, as the buxom young officer always wearing bikinis and maid's uniforms to go undercover. That's why she'd looked so familiar coming down the hill from the house; it was an outfit like one she'd worn in the opening credits, pushing her way through saloon doors in the midst of a brawl, bringing the whole wild bar to a freeze.
My rash escalated its itching, and it was all I could do not to scratch at my balls or throw my tunic open to catch some cool air. Mr. Crane's rule about bathing was beginning to chafe. I didn't mind smelling, but the itch was driving me mad. But with Mrs. Crane beside me I tried to bear it, though I think the strain showed on my face, because she gave me a strange sort of
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