B ARBARA M ALOUTAS Theory So I bring them lunch, the three of them. They are not men, just boys. It’s kind of a picnic lunch at their place. One of them looks like a man with smooth golden skin and tattoos in another language running off his shoulder and muscles in that upper arm area with dark hair under his arms. I’m supposed to be like his second mother, but his arms make me think that I’m not his mother. He lisps. His lisp is perfect. It makes me come back from the edge, the edge that he makes for me. So the boys eat in a rush because ants will find the food sooner than later. As soon as we finish I pack the leftovers in the refrigerator and leave them the paper plates and forks and knives since they don’t have any forks and knives or real plates. It’s like a bachelor pad, and I’m welcome because I’m the mother. Although one of the three is my son, I try not to act like a mother. I stay until late. Later my son talks to the girl we wish he’d married, but I don’t say anything, or I won’t say anything because he might get spooked. So he talks softly and keeps saying I thought you’d be asleep because it’s so late where you are. She’s way back where he doesn’t want to live. The boy who lisps is always very business-like. He likes to talk about business and makes me think he could make a lot of money until he speaks, and then I think it’s all theory for him and he’s all theory for me. So in a way that’s how I get out of it. Like an artist I heard talk this week that said what she tries to do is make things that are not really her taste. Somehow I realize that he is not my taste although he really is.
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