6 / 180
6
She was hanging her nightgown out in the morning. Her
pyjamas were not shining with cleanliness. No, my mother
is careful in such situations. She pours so much bleach into
the laundry that the neighbors praise her, “The cleanest
laundry in our yard is Ano’s.” She’s so slow, so slow, her
hands trembling – but of course I can’t see that, I just feel it
instinctively. While she puts one edge of the cloth on the
clothesline and attaches the clip, the wind blows out the
other corner and the cloth is left hanging, so she has to
start all over again. You have to attach them better, woman,
stronger, press down on that clip. In a word, until she
manages to hang up one nightgown, I drown in sweat and,
of course, end up late for work.
A new daily routine. I now only go to work like a regular
person, then come back because I have an important,
secret, pretty old lady. There are acacias in the space
between my balcony and hers. They have blossomed into
white flowers. If I could walk on air, I could step on the
acacias, cross the street, step on the acacias again and end
up on her balcony. That was the distance between her
house and mine – acacia, street, acacia.
Yes, our new girlfriend has guests today. I set up the
hookah and place it ceremoniously next to me, the cat in
my lap, and began to watch proceedings in the house across
the street. They’re probably her grandchildren. They come
out onto the balcony. The grandmother behind them,
lazily, slowly. They sit. The tall one among then softly pats