The End Of Today
By Lydia Copeland
At the end of today I want to lounge around my
apartment in a silky robe with my toes in the dog's fur. I want
to nibble from a string of grapes fed to me by my husband. I
want my husband's hands to be rough from work, but his hair
to be clean and flaxen. I want us both to smell like shampoo.
I want a giant feather the size of a bookcase and a sweet-natured
person to fan me with it. I want the floor to be swept so I
can walk around barefoot and not worry about the bottoms of
my feet turning gray. I want the checkbook to balance itself.
I want the dog not to shed so I can, for once, eat something
without finding a hair in my mouth. I want to stop thinking
about the handsome police officer who pulled me over last week
or the older man with the muscular arms who works the window
of the post office.
At bedtime I want a warm bath and well-scrubbed
fingernails. I want a cup of fresh wine that doesn't taste like
vinegar. I want a sliver of sharp cheddar cheese and a toothpick
with a paper umbrella at one end. I want a small chamber orchestra
beneath my window. I want the box fan on a medium setting. I
want to slip into bed naked and wrap myself in 1000 thread count
sheets. I want my next door neighbor's husband, wearing only
boxer shorts, to tuck me in. I want to see the shadows of the
tulip poplar trees against the wall. I want to feel sure that
all the doors are locked and bolted without having to get out
of bed to check. I want my feet to stop hurting, my mind to
stop wandering, my face to relax. I want the dog to sleep through
the night and not to tremble should there be a thunderstorm.
I want my husband to turn off the bedside lamp and kiss me where
it counts.
In the morning I want a couple of goldfinches
in the trees. I want a gray sky. I want the choice of seven
kinds of cereal for breakfast. I want my boss to call and tell
me I'm still getting paid today though I should probably stay
at home and watch movies on my couch. I want the dog not to
bark at the city trash trucks or the strangers on the sidewalk.
I want to open a full mailbox. I want to win a three week trip
to the desert and all the states in the American west. I want
the trip to include a luxury rental car that will make it across
the country without the air conditioner running out. I want
to see bizarre land formations and a giant cactus. At rest stops
I want to drink sodas and take long strides across the parking
lot. I want my husband to take turns driving with me and not
let the dog hang her head too far out the window. I want to
drive across a flat landscape into a cool cloudless night and
listen to the voice of a late night radio DJ. I want to see
a new sky full of new constellations. I want to put my palm
on my husband's knee and feel his warm legs through his jeans.
I want the dog to sniff my ear and lick my face while I drive.
I want my husband to fall asleep in the passengers seat with
his childish cheek pressed against the window.
....
Lydia Copeland lives in East Tennessee where she teaches English
and works in a library. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming
in Glimmer Train, Opium, Monkey Bicycle, Eyeshot, Dicey Brown,
and others.
