OPERA GLASSES

“Last night, coming back from disco class with Susan, I yelled on the top landing that it was hopeless—I was never going to find a job I liked—and I dived halfway out the open window, flailing my arms and leg (the other foot planted firmly on the ground).

“’I’m going to end it all,’ I wailed.

“’You can’t do that yet!’ Susan cried, dragging me back by the coattails. ‘You haven’t paid your part of the phone bill!’

                                                                             …

“This evening, outside my window, I hear the sounds of the city showering—the first time since I moved to Berkeley. Nearer at hand, I fancy a bird inhabits the rain gutter, it chirps so musically with trickling water at the corner beyond my desk. I have an unimpeded view, across several back lots, of a neighbor watching TV with his feet propped up on something on the one…two…three…seventh floor. Mornings I see him doing push-ups, his head bobbing rhythmically above the projection of his balcony, like something in a carnival target-shoot booth. Singing gaily, I dress in front of him, hoping that, despite the distance, he can still distinguish my secondary sex characteristics. Who knows? Maybe if I sing loud and long enough, he’ll buy opera glasses.”