She sits in the chair that faces the window, and eats cottage cheese and papaya for breakfast. I throw some rolled oats in a pot with some water. Stand at the stove and watch water boil.
Morning, she says. How did you sleep?
Under the covers. Head on a pillow.
Just comes naturally, doesn't it. Smartass. Soon as your feet hit the floor.
It’s a gift, I say.
Give it back, she says.
That papaya you're eating?
Want some, she asks.
No I don’t like papaya. Never have liked papaya.
What’s wrong with papaya?
It’s musky, I say. I don’t like musky fruit.
The oatmeal sticks to the bottom of the pot. I scoop what I can in a pink plastic bowl.
Fine, she says. More papaya for me. So how did you sleep?
I don’t feel like I did. Had a terrible dream—nightmare really—I lived, for some reason, with John Cassavettes and the place was just crawling with…not sure what to call them...creatures I guess...big dark eyes, like black leather buttons…their skin was smooth, and green like jade and they popped through the walls and up through the floor…dozens of ‘em. An infestation. John Cassevettes was no help at all.
He’s so good-looking.
Was good-looking. He's been dead for some time.
Who was it he married?
Gena Rowlands, I tell her.
Couldn’t think of the name to save my life. She was nice-looking too. When did he pass?
Eighty-nine, I believe.
He must not have been that old when he died.
He drank, apparently. A good man, though. A talented man and generous, I hear, with his money, and time. Really a shame. So is this oatmeal.
Morning light streams in through the window. The oatmeal is burnt. Not to mention it's lumpy. The pink plastic bowl has a crack on the side. She washes the cottage cheese curds from her plate, and looks at her watch. Her sleeves ride up on her arms when she moves.
It's late, she says. I've got to get going.
Her eyes are dark. Two black leather buttons. Her skin is smooth, and green as a stone.
She turns and she smiles like John Cassavettes.
There’s still some papaya left over, you know.