Peggy and Fred in hell Leslie Thornton She pressed her back hard into the chair and put her hand under her leg. He had no idea she was there. Finally her impatience took over and he turned as her hand shot up to her eye. What was the difference, she thought. He’ll stand there with his machine and think about good design until she lets something else happen. The breeze came in with the smell of the factory as she shuffled her feet, but all that mattered now was the way the window opened. Because the curtain was just beyond her reach she decided to forget about the hole and make an effort to speak. It started now. Speak. She looked around for a while, dropped her hands and swallowed her tongue. Except for a few breaks here and there everything seemed so oppressively even. Spinach omelet maybe? I don’t like spinach. I’m sick of spinach. How about pork chops? I’m sick of spinach omelets. We’ve had an omelet every day.
Her head flew into the farthest comer of the room, mouth opened involuntarily, sounds of moaning, blast of light off the curtain, then came another thunderous clap from the orchestra and they found themselves back in the wheat field. The door opened. They were received into the outer world with great joy. No. No. Don’t go. I’m afraid. I want to be alone. She felt the four walls with her hands then hung her head between her feet, into the hole, and cried.
Crash. The birds were at it again, but no matter because she hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time. He put her hand under her leg while he turned on the machine. She kicked him (unintentionally) in the eye then looked out the window. Overall it hadn’t been a bad day. Wild. Things running all over the place. Objects. Hole bubbling. Charm-destroying and romance-killing odors. A window that opened by itself. The sounds of the soap opera next door. It was harrowing living here and it took all the strength they had. It was hell.
Other things happen in this room. There are huge mill wheels turning rapidly and the proud are attached to them with fiery hooks. The envious are immersed to the navel in a river of ice and are lashed by the biting wind. In the cave the wrathful are hacked by swords and knives. The slothful are shut in a cage full of serpents. The avaricious are plunged to the neck in cauldrons of boiling oil and metals. In a valley there is a foul river and a table heaped with filth upon its bank. Here the gluttonous are fed with reptiles and the water of the river. The lustful are sunk in pits full of fire and sulfur.
I can’t stand having only one chair, he said. I know what she is. That’s the way she is. She’s like that, she’s evil. Look at the way she stands there with her head flying off and her feet beneath the floor. And when I reach for her she’s just that much farther. She cried out, threw her hand against the wall. It cracked and fell away.
The light was so dim they had developed the habit of staring. Always moving, she was very strict about the kinds of things she would say. It was a glorious day, sun on the curtains, windows shut cutting the noise and the smell. Madness, simple like a headache, made a knot of their common efforts. (Deep down they were frozen with terror.) But the distractions in the room kept them busy and they did not suffer unduly. Her speech was elliptical and seductive, she thought, though very limited, still powerful, and filled with sound. At least I’m one person who appreciates the excesses of the body. She started to hum.
Now that the house had burned down they had a better view of the factory. He cut the acorn squash and sat down to read the funnies. She stood on his head to arrange the curtains. The slope of the floor toward the hole was causing trouble but what could they do? It interfered with walking and infected what little elegance there was in the room. So despite a rich fantasy life she felt thrown together in the insouciant tradition of most tropical constructions. Tropical. What a funny way to think of it. Insouciant. She didn’t even know what that meant.
La da da da, da da da.
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