On slow days during the summer that I worked for the state attorney I would roam the aisles of the warehouse, pulling out files at random and thumbing through them. It was probably illegal and certainly unethical, and I don't have any excuse aside from boredom and a total disconnect from the people in those cases. But then one day I pulled out a file and a sheaf of pictures fell out, pictures from what turned out to be a murder scene. But it wasn't just any murder, no, I happened across the documentation of what happens when a father abuses his daughter just one too many times in reaching distance of a knife.
I deserved what I got, arrogantly not respecting the privacy of people just because they were contained in a box instead of standing in front of me. Those poloriods live just on the other side of my eyelids--they've never gone away.
I think we should all pause and notice that I have not yet split town, moved to Fiji, and taken up with a houseboy who only speaks enough English to make margaritas. That's pretty much a triumph of my better judgment, since more than half of me just wants to vanish. Lord, am I restless. The trouble is that I forget to breathe and it makes me crosseyed and everything seems a whole lot bigger than it actually is. I get scared of spring and everything that can happen but might not because I'm so scared and restless. Which makes the not-breathing more.
Last night at dinner our appetizer had flowers on it.