***
She’s slow. She’s so slow. She is five years old, wearing a pink plaid
dress with her hair in the neatest braids I could manage so early in the
morning. There is syrup on her chin from the waffles I made her, and
when I tell her to wipe it off, she swings her big eyes up at me and blinks
lazily.
“Wipe the syrup off your chin,” I repeat. She doesn’t move, so I
swipe her napkin and rub it across her chin, maybe a little too hard. “You
can’t walk around with food all over your face.”
I’m expecting a check from Ted, which may explain my mood. It’s
a Monday, and I should have had the check last Wednesday. He’s good
for it; it’s just that he’s lazy. He has a new wife and a fancy job down in
Baltimore and he doesn’t care about Jamie and me, so his checks come
a few days late most months. When they’re late, he usually includes a
scribbled post-it note: “Hope all is well. Love to Jamie.” Today, I will find,
his check includes no note. Sometimes I consider stuffing a few condoms
into an envelope and omitting a return address and sending it to him.
“Hope all is well. Keep