by MB

published November 3, 2017

She told me: you remind me of my daughter. She told me: clean a wool coat with ice cold water. She sat outside of East Side Market, not so much asked me as told me to watch her things. She walked into the liquor store, ostensibly in search of an ATM. She came out with two nips, one of which she downed in front of me, immediately afterwards informing me that she is developing an allergy to alcohol that causes discomfort in her gut and bowels. Then she passed me the other one with the gruff sentiment, “I bought two, I drank one, here’s yours.”

She has beautiful wool coats and is on her way to a condo in Orlando that her sister owns, her sister that owns many condos (but none in Rhode Island). She gave me a candle when I got off the bus—the fancy trolleylike one—and it turned into the lot and we looked at each other like, “It’s happening, drink your nip sister,” and said something that I can’t quite remember. What she said was something along the lines of, “Bless You. Bless this Day. Bless the Moment that We Met. My Daughter is Particular about her Father, you are Particular about Everything, and I Love You.” It reminded me eerily of when I was in a car crash last week, and the first responder picked up the broken side mirror saying, “Let’s clean this up so no dog or Christian cuts their foot on it.”