(3) Yoga Bunnies Go Ballistic
Lara was indeed installed in the conservatory when he arrived. He tiptoed up to the glass doors and peeked in to see her executing what looked like a painful move. Of course, most yoga positions looked painful to him, in his exercise-free slobiosity. Satisfied, he moved quietly back to the den, as he was now beginning to call it, and settled into the bosom of the couch, wondering whether to submit to the internet or nap. As he tussled with his incipient sloth he found his mind wandering back to the walk home, where, once again, he’d glimpsed his new neighbours in what perhaps was a second black Mercedes. Driven by a middle aged gentleman, proud of bearing and stern of visage, it had cruised by him just before the house and, raising his hand in greeting, he had been surprised by a small but unmistakable nod in return. So what might that portend?
Several scenarios seemed possible. Years of distant politeness. A winter of occasional exchanges followed by a spring of garden greetings and then handshakes.
A first winter’s unfamiliarity with ice, an awkward automobile moment with Andrew as unlikely Samaritan, and a surprise dinner invite. A rebel daughter, all nose rings and tattoos, ejected and seeking asylum, with Andrew as multicultural counsellor and peacemaker. A neo-hippy son with his first guitar, desperate for early Beatles and Floyd albums. And then perhaps stolid predictability and bourgeois smugiosity, as boringly snooty as any white folks. His fantasy machine was in overdrive, and he smiled to think of Jordan's warnings. Watch out for that fantasy machine, it can get addictive, he would say. He closed his eyes and let it all go.
Lara awakened him with a kiss to the forehead. Hey sleepy boy, want some tea?
His urge to be politely responsive was clouded with a dream recall, so he smiled and nodded. She left him to shake free the pieces from the puzzle. He was inside the garage, what garage, and there were two black Mercedes, ah that garage, Then he was in an upstairs bedroom. A seemingly empty bedroom. A young man in traditional attire was bent over in prayer. Piety was palpable. Then he was inside a small dark space. Kind of a twilight light, where he could see clothes hanging and boxes stacked. And that seemed to be all, at least for now. He brought himself to his feet to see Lara arranging things by the counter. She noticed his movement and smiled. Just a jiffy. Before shuffling off to the bathroom for a splash down he noted her posture. More strength, more flexibility, more ease. He rationalised this perception as he washed, marvelling at its complexity. And then he forgot it. Probably just as well. Acting spontaneously without analysis was better wasn’t it.
They sat at the kitchen table and sipped their herb tea.
You looked very far away after your nap.
I was. Still am really. Sometimes my dreams are very vivid and informative.
Me too, especially in the hospital.
Even with all that morphine?
Even with all that morphine.
I even did the dead relatives thing.
Andrew raised his eyebrows. Really.
Not that they looked dead, and several of them completely unrecognisable.
What were they doing?
YOU ARE READING
