A date wanted to bring her portable drill to my bedroom and put up new paper blinds, all because I mentioned the old ones were soiled and tipping. She hadn’t even seen my bedroom. And I had spent barely two hours with her, she couldn’t have known whether I’m handy. I wondered what was going on, and I winked at her. “Maybe I should accept whatever you offer.”
“Whatever” sounds limitless. I thought I might be in for quite an adventure.
When Chalcedony offers something, I don’t have the choice of refusing. I don’t have the critical apparatus to make a choice, anyway. She exists outside my ken. I write whatever she wants, and afterwards, sometimes years afterwards, I dive into the poem and hope it will offer up its essence.
My date read a couple of these poems and, as fits her lack of gender bias, wondered why we don’t hear the boyfriend’s responses. Especially since Chalcedony is often ranting, taking him to task for his cluelessness.
I didn’t have an answer, and later it occurred to me that some of the songs might be the boyfriend’s responses. But his push back comes disguised in Chalcedony’s voice. Flamboyant and feminine as it often seems, it sometimes does not have any gender clues.
I never saw the drill, and my blinds are still soiled and tipping.