screaming. I found myself getting angry at the screaming. “This is a play!” I yelled as loudly as I could. It was already so loud it didn’t matter that I had yelled it. Then, when everyone was dead, including the women, the play was over. “Fuck you,” I said, weakly. Everyone clapped. I started clapping too.
“Are you okay?” the man next to me asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?” He asked me this question with more curiosity than I was expecting.
“Josephine.”
“What a beautiful name. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Josephine.”
I put on my coat and gathered my things. The belt to my coat was tied very tightly around my waist.
“Yes, a pleasure,” the woman said.
“You too.” I kept tightening my belt. I didn’t know if I should stay or leave, but finally made my way toward the doors. I turned around and the two of them were holding hands, watching me.
At the edge of a field, carrots grow in the dark soil. Green leaves mark them. A small animal moves in and out among the vegetables, eating. In my kitchen I prepare rice. I soak black beans. This is when we are most vulnerable; when we eat, when we prepare to.
When I was a child, I was nothing like my students. I wanted to see neon lights clustered near an ocean. In Shanghai, this came true. I walked along the Bundt and the air was like a thousand ovens. Late at night I lay in a bed “feeling the room.” I must have been looking for something when I walked back and forth next to the water. Though there are many ways in which I am the same now as I was then, I don’t understand who I was as a child either.
In class, I ask the children to put on a play. Because they like the theater they are excited by this idea. One little girl is a trash truck. I tell her it would be better to play a person. She says she’ll be a hobo. The children make fake snow out of cotton balls glued onto poster-board. They have so much fun building the set they are angry when they have to perform.
When they do perform, I get bored. There are seven of them “on stage” and two of them are reciting their Christmas lists. I pay attention as long as I can and then I stare at the blackboard and then at the clock.
“Are you watching!” the children shriek.
The bell rings and they drop everything, scattering into the hallway. Out in the street I cry because I know I am a bad teacher, but there is nothing else for me to do with my life. A huge pink doll sits in the window of a toy store in the middle of a miniature village, a train circling around her. I hate this scene.
I think about the couple. At night, when I read in my bed, or in the old armchair next to the window, it doesn’t take long before the book is resting in my lap, closed, and I am aware of nothing but the inside of my mind. There the couple looks at me and I look at them.
When I pull carrots out of the soil, or snip chard from its pink stems, I imagine what their house must be like. I am sure there are drawings hanging on the walls and that a strong female dog guards them and keeps them safe. A dog they walk and let onto the couch on chilly evenings. If I want this kind of night it is mine.
When the weekend comes I go back to the theater. There, surrounded by other theatergoers, is my couple, just as I had imagined they would be. The woman gets up to meet me. She is wearing a dress made of a soft material. I let myself fall into her.
“Your skin is cold,” she says.
“Too cold?”
“No.”
The man takes my hand and holds it against his cheek. “I’m just going to come right out and ask. Are you married?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s terrific.”
“Sit down,” the woman says, motioning to the chair between them.
On stage is a man in a kitchen, putting groceries away. I sit there feeling the stage, feeling the whole theater. I can feel its history.
Because it is much quieter than the play before it we in the audience can hear each other breathe. The actor breathes too. He and I
“Are you okay?” the man next to me asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?” He asked me this question with more curiosity than I was expecting.
“Josephine.”
“What a beautiful name. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Josephine.”
I put on my coat and gathered my things. The belt to my coat was tied very tightly around my waist.
“Yes, a pleasure,” the woman said.
“You too.” I kept tightening my belt. I didn’t know if I should stay or leave, but finally made my way toward the doors. I turned around and the two of them were holding hands, watching me.
At the edge of a field, carrots grow in the dark soil. Green leaves mark them. A small animal moves in and out among the vegetables, eating. In my kitchen I prepare rice. I soak black beans. This is when we are most vulnerable; when we eat, when we prepare to.
When I was a child, I was nothing like my students. I wanted to see neon lights clustered near an ocean. In Shanghai, this came true. I walked along the Bundt and the air was like a thousand ovens. Late at night I lay in a bed “feeling the room.” I must have been looking for something when I walked back and forth next to the water. Though there are many ways in which I am the same now as I was then, I don’t understand who I was as a child either.
In class, I ask the children to put on a play. Because they like the theater they are excited by this idea. One little girl is a trash truck. I tell her it would be better to play a person. She says she’ll be a hobo. The children make fake snow out of cotton balls glued onto poster-board. They have so much fun building the set they are angry when they have to perform.
When they do perform, I get bored. There are seven of them “on stage” and two of them are reciting their Christmas lists. I pay attention as long as I can and then I stare at the blackboard and then at the clock.
“Are you watching!” the children shriek.
The bell rings and they drop everything, scattering into the hallway. Out in the street I cry because I know I am a bad teacher, but there is nothing else for me to do with my life. A huge pink doll sits in the window of a toy store in the middle of a miniature village, a train circling around her. I hate this scene.
I think about the couple. At night, when I read in my bed, or in the old armchair next to the window, it doesn’t take long before the book is resting in my lap, closed, and I am aware of nothing but the inside of my mind. There the couple looks at me and I look at them.
When I pull carrots out of the soil, or snip chard from its pink stems, I imagine what their house must be like. I am sure there are drawings hanging on the walls and that a strong female dog guards them and keeps them safe. A dog they walk and let onto the couch on chilly evenings. If I want this kind of night it is mine.
When the weekend comes I go back to the theater. There, surrounded by other theatergoers, is my couple, just as I had imagined they would be. The woman gets up to meet me. She is wearing a dress made of a soft material. I let myself fall into her.
“Your skin is cold,” she says.
“Too cold?”
“No.”
The man takes my hand and holds it against his cheek. “I’m just going to come right out and ask. Are you married?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s terrific.”
“Sit down,” the woman says, motioning to the chair between them.
On stage is a man in a kitchen, putting groceries away. I sit there feeling the stage, feeling the whole theater. I can feel its history.
Because it is much quieter than the play before it we in the audience can hear each other breathe. The actor breathes too. He and I
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