FF #8
“Give me a rag before you leave. Your books seem dusty; I’ll dust them if I’m bored of my novel while you’re at work.”
There were three large open bookcases in the living room of my small flat. I protested a bit, but then I handed her the feather duster—I was getting late and didn’t have time to argue with my aunt. She had arrived the previous night. There was enough food in the fridge for her lunch; I had refused to let her cook, since I insisted that her visit was to be a break from all that. I would take her sightseeing after I got back from work, and then she was staying for the entire weekend of course.
I only remembered several hours later, possibly too late. Just before she had arrived, I had pushed my gay literature collection —novels and volumes of short stories; no pornography, I hasten to add— in a hidden pile to the back of one of these shelves. I wasn’t out to the extended family, you see.
I feigned a headache and left work quite early.
She was sipping coffee and reading her book; she offered to make me some coffee. After some small talk, she mentioned that she had dusted two of the bookcases, but had been too tired to do the middle one. This, incidentally, was the one with the hidden stack.
I only managed to scrutinize the shelf in question after I had dropped her at the airport, early on Monday morning. The books weren’t quite the way I thought I’d arranged them.
My cousins in-the-know would have intimated me had there been gossip about me in the family grapevine. Nor has the aunt asked me about marriage since.
“Give me a rag before you leave. Your books seem dusty; I’ll dust them if I’m bored of my novel while you’re at work.”
There were three large open bookcases in the living room of my small flat. I protested a bit, but then I handed her the feather duster—I was getting late and didn’t have time to argue with my aunt. She had arrived the previous night. There was enough food in the fridge for her lunch; I had refused to let her cook, since I insisted that her visit was to be a break from all that. I would take her sightseeing after I got back from work, and then she was staying for the entire weekend of course.
I only remembered several hours later, possibly too late. Just before she had arrived, I had pushed my gay literature collection —novels and volumes of short stories; no pornography, I hasten to add— in a hidden pile to the back of one of these shelves. I wasn’t out to the extended family, you see.
I feigned a headache and left work quite early.
She was sipping coffee and reading her book; she offered to make me some coffee. After some small talk, she mentioned that she had dusted two of the bookcases, but had been too tired to do the middle one. This, incidentally, was the one with the hidden stack.
I only managed to scrutinize the shelf in question after I had dropped her at the airport, early on Monday morning. The books weren’t quite the way I thought I’d arranged them.
My cousins in-the-know would have intimated me had there been gossip about me in the family grapevine. Nor has the aunt asked me about marriage since.
17 Jun 2016
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