The red and white chair catches my eye on the vintage shop’s Facebook page one evening, just as we are moving into our new house. I have never bought anything vintage or antique, or even vaguely non-IKEA. But there’s something about the toile fabric, the tall back, the diamond-shaped cushion: I have to have it….
Now & Then
The cat’s soft paws against the bedroom door, banging slightly, then scratching. Rain hitting the metal roof. The house quiet otherwise, dark, sleepy. “I am so turned on,” you say as you press against me. We push the heavy duvet covers to the floor and expose ourselves in the bright morning. Your blond skin is…
Language of Love
The boy I loved in high school wears pink jeans to our twentieth reunion. His blond hair is not as floppy as I remember, but he smooths it back from his forehead with a familiar nervous motion. He holds a cigarette between his bony fingers and he nods in my direction through the crowd of…
Flight Path
It takes us a couple of days to realize that our new house sits along the flight path of our local airport. It’s mostly smaller, private planes that use this runway, but still, we regularly hear jets rev their engines or slow as they take off and approach from the East. At times there is…
A work in progress
It’s 3 a.m., my witching hour. Miss K, my therapist, calls it the “common hour” because apparently so many people are awake at this time of night. Thinking of my fellow insomniacs makes me feel less alone when I wake and blink in the darkness, my mind racing. Everything is scarier during the common hour:…
The Uterus Must Go
I’ve always had this fantasy that one day I would find a baby. I’d be driving down the road, or walking on the street, and a bundle would catch my eye—nobody else would notice it but me. Maybe there is a small toe sticking out, or an arm, and I know immediately that it’s a…
The Thing About Love
My mom is standing by the kitchen sink, squeezing pimples on a chicken. This is the 1990s in Hungary, when chicken still come with remnants of what makes them poultry: feathers, dry skin around the heel, nails that once scratched dirt on a farm. Behind her on the kitchen table are carrots and parsley and…
Motherhood and Waiting: anticipatory preparation
I wake like this every morning: the first sounds I hear are my seven-year-old’s footsteps in the hallway as he makes his way to our room. He jumps on me, sharp elbows in my ribs, head butting against my chest, my chin, my nose. Then he settles and we breathe quietly under the covers together,…
Smoking
We are walking to the metro when the three boys stop us. I say “boys,” but really, they are young men, in their early twenties. They are looking for an Italian place in the neighborhood that does takeout. They speak English with an accent—Dutch, maybe German?—and we point them in the right direction. As my…
Zsofi Writes 