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.”