The Penelope Metaphor
I forgot to mention: I’m in love. It can’t work. At least that’s what I hear about these inter-borough romances. We are separated by bridges and rivers, our distant points on the continuum of common sense. He has to “do his thing,” a catchall answer to the questions I pose. Alternatively, he has to “keep it real.” Give it time is written in long-last mascara on my bathroom mirror. My prayer beads have darkened with my dirt. My knees are sore from all the heaven-begging. I am another woman cast into another eternal queue. Call my number, I say to whoever is listening. I wave my little ticket, hoping to catch God’s eye.