chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: Lynette

fragments…Martin ~ 2

Martin examined the contents of the closet. Fibber McGee lives on, he thought. Ski poles, a baseball bat, umbrellas and a couple of large cardboard tubes leaned in one corner. Two enormous down jackets looked like they were holding their breath. The rest of the space was a crush of raincoats, wool and denim jackets, Lynette’s grandmother’s beaded dress and a red windbreaker someone had left at their house. Tablecloths and a patchwork quilt were folded over hangers, wrapped in plastic as they had come from the dry cleaner.

The floor was covered with shoes, two of Lynette’s purses that had fallen from the shelf, the vacuum’s various awkward parts, and a large paper grocery sack that turned out to contain an elaborate bird feeder and a five-pound bag of bird seed. Martin shook his head and wondered what he was doing in the closet. Oh yeah, the vacuum cleaner.

He walked to the hall phone and dialed Lynette’s office number.
“Good morning, this is Lynette,” she answered.
“Hey, Lynnie, it’s me. How’s it going?”
“Hey, Mar,” she said.
“So I was thinking about vacuuming and I got sucked up in the vortex of the hall closet…”
“Sort of like Dorothy and Toto?”
“Yeah, something like that. So while I was caught in the storm I had this idea: what if we moved the junk we never use out of the closet and put a shoe rack in there for you? Just move your shoes out of the bedroom completely.”
“Oh my god, Marty, you’re a genius.”
“Yeah, but you knew that. That’s why you asked me to dance.”
“That and the green shoes. How could I resist?”
“Okay, get back to work and we’ll talk about the closet when you get home.”
“Love you, Mar.”
“Love you too, Lynnie.”

fragments…Martin ~ 1

Too many shoes, Martin grumbled as he poked among the debris on the closet floor in search of the vacuum attachment. How had all these shoes come to reside in the front closet anyway? Martin pictured them nosing out of Lynette’s bedroom closet, making sure the coast was clear, and then walking, in pairs, heel-toe, down the long hall.

He lifted a knitted scarf from the floor. It was clotted with dust. He draped it over the doorknob where, maybe, he or Lynette would notice it and take it outside for a good shaking. The shoes were piled in a heap on top of one another, hiking boots and high heels, wood-soled clogs and dog-faced bedroom slippers with floppy ears.

The first thing that Lynette did when she walked in the front door was to shuck off her shoes, right in the entry hall. One time she had stumbled over a shoe on her way to check the mail, and after that she began to give them a little kick over to the wall, out of the way, or into the closet. She padded around the house barefoot, or in her socks or stockings, quiet and content without the shoes, which would pile up and pile up until one day she’d gather them in her arms and return them to the bedroom, where they’d start their migration once again…