oh

It is too hot in Venice in August and there is too much rain in Ireland to live. There are pictures only: the sun, the humidity, a small distant window. In fairness, a holdover from twelve years of Hawaii keeps a heater at her feet in fine, stable weather: marred, always, by the weather of this office, the temporary one.

Finger taps at her temples are conspiratorial, because she only likes the clever ones. Television television televison, she says, while she practices the parts from her Native American flute lessons during meetings. No one should ever stop learning.

Keeping afloat seems like trying to keep the rest from sinking, but there’s little to do. It’s the television; where else do they go at night? A solid connection with the delivery man: familial, geographical, and the world does seem small. It was a tiny town on Maui, but the view isn’t bad from this desk either.

Please tell them to dust the bunnies from underneath. She makes it to Venice.

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