PRETENDING TO BE BLIND

And when one woman met the other, so it was: “I will take off my glasses,” she said. She, who had once been part of a clandestine group, a revolutionary organization, which committed itself to the execution of those who would talk over showings at repertory theaters and art museums, and then after committed itself to the subsequent expropriation of their dead-body posessions — the other woman had lived a more pedestrian life, she would sometimes claim. And her room still had its fake vines along the wall; was this distasteful? Aesthetic tastes seemed to be wavering, these days, and in a stunning betrayal of the insurrectionary programme she could not bring herself to mind. The days for both such modes of living had long since passed, anyway — both were, as such, difficult aberrations — and now was a season through which the rain would never cease; and now she preferred more than any other pastime to come up with titles for things which did not and would not exist. Each and every one of these creations would be destroyed at the time of their inception, with decidedly nothing therein to adequately till, except one birth, which she allowed in setting her glasses on the bedside table. "I'm Pretending To Be Blind," she said, the other woman seemingly unaware to the significance; and then she knocked everything off the bedside table like they were each other's lovers; and then she ripped down the plastic vines which she had actually always hated; and both of the women's fingers, the other would note, smelled of cheap whisky and cocaine. Some things are only ever approachable when one is adequately dissolved. But then it came time for this orgasmic spasming to allegedly end, her aesthetic humiliations and her (newly?) anti-pedestrian contraventions, respectively, and so it did: "I'm putting back on my glasses now, I can see you, and it looks like I always could see you actually," she said. It was only like how it was. She concluded, how else could it ever be? Rain gave way to snow gave way to rain gave way to blistering sun, and then again, and at last a dead body was once more discovered outside the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. Or, one of these days.