We lie in bed. Suns and moons rise and fall in her womb, and I want to write the perfect definition of the word sleep. I mull it over as she tries to tell me about her weird day, her very weird day, but something's off. She's withholding or cannot access the details of the story -- not a single one. She just says, and keeps saying, you don't understand how weird my day was.
I don't remember what else is happpening, but it is so weird, trust me, the way she just repeats herself.
So I say, maybe it's not actually so weird after all. I mean, you've got nothing here.
She seems suddenly very disappointed in me and turns to the wall, which is covered from top to bottom, left to right, with pictures of her father. There are so many pictures that over time, to fit them all, she buys out the other apartments on the floor, knocks down the walls. She hires contractors to put in additions, expansive hallways, verandas, surveillance systems to monitor the photographs she can't readily see.
Her possessions are otherwise sparse and her bed small.
So, there we are, in her tiny bed, me feeling weird, strange, odd, aberrant, funny, unfamiliar, alien, apart, remote and screwy surrounded by cameras filming photographs of her father while hundreds of televisions project their images. The walls are covered, the floors, the ceilings. The bed is shrinking. I am shrinking, and she is frozen in time, staring dreamily at miles of fatherly faces.
