Whatever that means.
“So, you’re his agent?” She asks me, hand warm on mind, still interested in conversation
I nod.
She stays in front of me, eyes open and curious.
I pull my hand back, and pick up the hideous mug in front of me. I take a sip and realize I’m drinking from the mug that David poured for himself.
Great. One day in this bumblefuck place and I’ve already lost any sense of boundaries.
I pull a tissue from my pocket and wipe my mouth.
“I’m glad you like the cups,” she smiles again, wider this time.
“I don’t.”
Her eyebrows go up, eyes darting between the mugs on the counter and my face.
“Is something wrong with them?”
I pause, tempted to tell her the truth. Yes, something is wrong with them. They’re fucking ugly. But that would be rude and I am, for the moment, a guest.
I may be intimidating, but I’m not cruel.
“They’re not my style,” I grind out, feeling like I’m under a spotlight, forced to lie to an inquisitor.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Jane loves them. I hope David does too, but…” she rolls her eyes, “he’s so in love, I don’t think it matters.”
She smiles again, brighter, and reaches for the box on the counter. The cardboard is faded, various notes and addresses have been written across it, crossed over, and written again. Faded stamps and a few stickers decorate the weathered sides.
She reuses her boxes to deliver gifts. Classy.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” I mutter. Her eyes light up and I instantly regret my comment.
“See about what?” She asks, eyes curious.
I’m irritated. I’m jet lagged. I’m tired. I realize I’ll be sleeping on the floor, now that my multi-million dollar client has decided to not only associate with hippies but become one, and decided against furniture. And now this woman, who would be attractive if she didn’t look like she just rolled off Haight Ashbury Street, is talking about love and romance. My least favorite topics.
“We’ll see about them,” I say, casually, but I know it’s not casual. It’s a shitty thing to say. David would punch me if he heard me say it. Well, he’d want to punch me at least. He’s probably become a pacifist in the few months I left him to his own devices, let him fly across the country, land in Maine, and get swooped up by a professor and her coven of women.
Penelope continues to look at me. I’m anticipating an outburst, probably swearing. Maybe a slap. But she just looks at me, curious. As if I have said or done something she has never seen or heard before.
Apparently, in Midnight, Maine, there are no cynics.
In Midnight, Maine, everyone believes in love.
I don’t know why, but this thought makes me even more irritable.
I glance over her shoulders. Where the hell is David?
She shrugs, and turns her eyes to the box. One by one, a collection of lumps appear before me, each wrapped in newspaper. My morbid curiosity gets the best of me and I don’t look away.
When the box is empty, she moves it to the floor and begins to unwrap the lumps, dropping the newspaper into the box.
More hideous mugs, each one more sparkly and lopsided than the rest, appear before me. A bowl of sorts, barely tall enough to contain liquid. Something tall and thin and phallic shaped.
“So, you must be a big fan of the Saviors of Space franchise,” she says, eyes on me again, that mega-watt smile in full place on her face. The dimples are cute, I have to admit. As are the smattering of freckles across her nose. Combined with the slight gap in her teeth, she reminds me of a post-pubescent Raggedy Ann doll.
She leans over, unwrapping another lumpy disaster, this one, I think, aspiring to be a teapot, but with a half-formed handle and a lid that seems two sizes too small.
She’s looking at me again. I assume wanting an answer to her question.
“Sure.”
Eyebrows up. Another smile. She finishes her unwrapping and the counter is covered in a collection of these deformed creatures. They look like the leftovers of a nuclear plant’s explosion. A tea party in Chernobyl.
I hear David’s footsteps coming down the stairs and look over Penelope’s shoulder to him.
“Hey, Davey!” The woman smiles widely, offers a sisterly pat on his chest as he gives her a side hug.
“Wow,” he looks down at the collection of ugly shit on his counter. “These are great! Did you finish them this weekend?”
She nods, picking up the demented teapot. I half expect it to turn to me and beg me to put it out of its misery.
“This is Charlene.”
Of course. Of course this woman names her pottery.
David nods, reaching for Charlene. “She’s gorgeous.”
“Right?” She grins. “She belongs with the others- Frank, Liz, Biff, and Oswald.” She points to each of the lumpy mugs.
“No David?” He asks, still smiling at Charlene.
She picks up the phallus. “This is David.” She reaches for the not-quite bowl. “And this is Jane.”
He nods. “I love them both.”
“I knew you would.”
“The handle’s broken,” I mention. Wondering if I am the only person with accurate vision in this kitchen.
“David and Jane don’t have handles,” she looks me patiently, as though explaining basic math to a child.
“I mean the…big one,” I point to the tea pot. “Shouldn’t that have a handle.”
“Why don’t David and Jane get handles?” David asks, reaching past me for his coffee cup, Oswald, I think. I’m tempted to tell him I drank from it, but judging from his bare feet, unkempt hair and still unshaven face, I doubt he would care.
God. What is this place? Midnight? Or Woodstock?
She turns to him, placing both hands on either side of his face and peering deeply into his eyes. “Because both you and Jane are autonomous, independent beings. No one carries you, because neither of you needs to be carried.”
David grins, pats her hands, and turns to me. “Did you hear that, Angelo? No one carries me.”
I nod. “Great.”
“Charlene has a handle,” she picks up the teapot.
