Perfume agua esa noche – I’m addicted to you

Annie's in the kitchen fumbling with the dishwasher, a dirty dinner dish in her hand. "Those dishes are clean. You can make money by emptying that," I say. "I need to shower," she says, abandoning the dishwasher. Annie never valued money enough to faithfully execute chores. I'm not so good at that myself.

She's leaning over the sink, and I notice her tan boot slippers, black short shorts, grey tank top, and black and grey hoodie. Batman belt. She's cute.

"I'm addicted to you," Shakira's belting her new song from a pink iPod in the other room.

"Mommy what will get me money?" My little one Pinkie has noticed there is money to be had. "Going to bed will get you money," Annie says. I'm taking notes.

Annie and I share the red corduroy couch tonight, now. She's curled up with a book, the second in the Hunger Games trilogy. I'm just glad she's found her book lust. We do family reading sometimes, but usually she's consumed by schoolwork. Tonight, for her, it's pleasure reading. I watch and type into my laptop from the left corner of the couch. She's right.

She never did take that shower. Her nightly routine these days includes a hideous green face mask. Hillions of little not-green spots tighten across her masked skin, spots magnifying her pores as the thing cures. In contrast, her ruby lips, red as the corduroy couch we share. Lips should not be so red, I think. Her hair is piled high in a ponytail-bun, and a black and white skull and crossbones plastic headband secures her forehead hair. Holding her breath as she reads, she leans into the book. I wonder at the scene her brain is consuming right now; a world I don't know, but have access to. She turns a page.

"I'm gonna go shower," she says, slipping a bookmark into the book as she snaps it shut. I watch her as I type, recording everything I see. She doesn't guess what I'm writing, but my expression must be odd. "You OK?" She asks. I nod yes, maintaining my typing pace and face.

She checks her phone. I fall prey to the phone yawn; the light on my phone is blinking too. As she stands up from the couch her phone drops to the ground for the second time tonight. I'm always doing things like that, I think, breaking into a smile. We are the same, me and my girl.

(for Annie, from Mom, based on observations from 5/2/12)

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thoughts from the red corduroy couch

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