Golden Box Book Publishing One Picture: Thousands of Words - Page 21

windows, attached to the main window, were always open and had fans in them that were always on, as was a light in the living-room— all night long! I wouldn’t believe that someone like her—with that look of defiance—could be scared of the dark. The summer pasted, and every evening, I waited anxiously, longingly, for her to appear—and she always did, and my longing for her, my love for her, grew. I had to meet her! I ached, burned for her. I have a caregiver, Flora, who comes three mornings a week— cleans my place; washes my clothes, and such. She’s in her fifties; short and fat; has a thick Russian accent; is a gossipy person who prides herself in knowing most of the residents here and their lives. Monday morning, last week, I was sitting in my wheelchair, at the window. Flora came in, and I said: “Flora, do you know the woman who lives across from me?” She walked over and stood next to me. I pointed out the window, across the parking lot to building C. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “that Miss Taylor’s apartment. She nice. She teacher, second grade … You like?” “Well, yes,” I replied, embarrassed. Before I knew it, Flora took a picture of me with her cellphone, and said: “I tell her about you. She nice. You see.” Wednesday morning, Flora comes rushing into the apartment, all excited, saying: “I show her your picture and told all about you. She like. She invites you supper Saturday, at five; her apartment, C-312.” “Now, wait, now,” I protested, my mind racing, “I-I, well, I don’t even know her name.”