I. Jenny Dwayne

Her words were tangled in filaments. She cupped her hand in front of her mouth when speaking, cradled the sounds like children, keeping them close in case she had to try to pull them back. Maybe she was ashamed when they were stocky and short, and stumbled, not quite ringing out with confidence. In her apartment, instead of slippers, she strapped on high-heels, dreaming of elegance.

But though she clicked on the pastel floor-tiles, chipping the gray roses in the kitchen, and left finger smears on the metal refrigerator door as she grabbed it for balance, she could not glide. And so the red-strapped heels did not step over the threshold, but came only as far as the hallway mirror, where Jenny would shuffle in a circle, critically squinting at freckles and rounded cheeks.

She was uncertain in other areas of her life. When she drove her car, she pressed the brakes and gas pedal simultaneously, sometimes even realizing it, but never quite being able to change. The flashing of car headlights unnerved her when she looked in the rear view window, where the lights would bleach her blue eyes to white-gray, carrot hair to blond. She hated driving. She drove everywhere.

She wrung waiting until it became almost an art and stole facts from tabloids, finding truth between the lines. In the articles, the mermaids plead guilty for global warming and upside down birthing techniques were the new thing, and Jenny knew truth from falsehood. She knew that, when spoken, words were often mistaken, but written, they became maxims.

Her almost-husband, Albert, did not understand words as she did, and left when she could not answer the ring and flowers with 'yes'. The cab he took had black designs burned into the leather seats with cigarette ends, and she did not say the words to stop him.

Her apartment was narrow, slit between two other hollow apartments. The door was always locked and bolted. A lurid wreath hung, obscuring the peek-hole. The wreath changed with the seasons, but never quite to match the holidays, and never quite seen by the neighbors , staggering home, drunk on city life and fifteen-hour workdays. But almost matching holidays was enough for Jenny, because 'almost' was neatly typed in Webster's New World Dictionary between 'almoner', an act of mercy, and 'alms', a deed of mercy. Words were important.

Jenny did not work. Her cousin in a western firm knew that and wrote out monthly checks for her in minuscule handwriting, sometimes sending the money with a recriminating letter.

She lived alone.

In the privacy of her apartment, she thought up bookshelves for the empty wall near the window, a table set for the living room, carpet for the bedroom and a string of Chinese luck cats for the counter-top. For home, she bought and wore black evening dresses that drained her complexion to paste-faced plumpness. The dresses never quite matched her red high-heels.  She had candle-light dinners alone.

She dreamed of stage directions uttered in a rakish voice by the dark-haired director with slender fingers. The roof was another dream, more rare and always set at night. But she would always wake up before she hit the ground.