You’re right about me. This is her thought with elbows pressing into the sticky kitchen table. Newsprint has darkened where bone meets wood. You’re right about me. You know me, don’t you. In many ways we’re alike–you and I. These loaded words spin in her head like a late night hangover. Words she never sent to him. But almost did. From the bookshelf in the far corner, nesting dolls observe the flesh shell shifting in her kitchen chair. Why the hell do they have such vacant eyes. They hide things. Like her, those nesting dolls.
“Mysteryland attendees,” shouts the morning headline. Her elbows are so deep into the wood she doesn’t give a flying crap about Mysteryland. We’re all born with some modicum of unknown. The curious, become painters, writers and scuba divers. In that order. She’s avoiding him. Evading her conscience which is tricky to do when it’s yourself you’re lying to. You’re right about me. The nesting dolls hide things. I hide things. There she said it. Her elbows peel away from the tacky table. Maybe she’ll get around to cleaning the house if she ever manages to clean her conscience. One truth. She’s never understood her motivations for anything she’s done other than waking up.
Alexis de Tocqueville unnested an entire character of an entire people simply by saying what he surmised to be true, “…each man instantly sees all his fellows when he surveys himself.” Had she ever unnested anything. Her self-surveys, tepid undeep things. No outer shell taken apart to reveal the next shell to the next shell taken apart all the way to the little solid mass of something that didn’t make any sense–a smiling grey mouse inside a genteel speckled Matryoshka. She’d never gotten close to her little grey mouse. All her shells, all her stuff crammed into layers.
You’re right about me.