Places That Big-Band Has Never Been

The blonde lives across the street, at a safe distance. The brunette studies the blonde as she sits in the middle of her tiny balcony. Some might call it a ‘French balcony’ just to make up for the fact that it isn’t really a balcony at all. The blonde’s ass is inside while her legs stick out on to the French balcony, and she leans against her bed. That bed is always made-up. White plaid. The blonde likes white. White sneakers, white pants, white V-neck Tshirt over a majestic plain white bra.

The blonde is about fifty. There are two pots of white gardenias on the balcony. She drinks a beer from a can, watches the big-band on the street outside the corner café. The brunette pretends to watch that same big-band. She has a towel wrapped around her hair and is wearing a tie-&-die dress. The brunette has only just taken a shower, and it’s past midday. Her own plants have already died. She doesn’t understand why. She’s tried to do what plants want people to do.

The blonde has two cats. Of course she has two cats, thinks the brunette. They come and pur at the blonde. They’re all shiny and healthy and happy sharing the single room apartement with the blonde.

This could be all that life has in store for her, thinks the brunette in pity. She asks herself if there’s anything wrong with that. No, and the blonde looks perfectly happy. It’s only that I wouldn’t be, she thinks. I am going places. Yesterday the television spoke to me. George Clooney was telling the other actor how everything is predestined. How you should tune into your fate. And so I must be going places. Places like, well places that big-band has never been. And the blonde. But right now I really wish I had a beer. I wish I had what that blonde woman has.