Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Girl In Her Summer Clothes

Our backyard is awesome. It's this little oasis in suburbia. A green, shadowy place to hide from the world. The people who owned this house before our landlord were gay. Gay men, to be precise. And they lived up to the stereotype of fabulosity. Two words: koi pond. Three words for inside the house: stained glass windows. See what I mean?

The koi pond has long since been covered over in dirt and I'm sure were the fellows, who moved across the street, to see the backyard now they'd exclaim in horror and cluck their clever tongues at my laziness. But their horror is my joy. Because they put so much work into it back then, I continue to reap the rewards of the meticulously planted ivy, bushes, and all sorts of green annuals. I don't do a thing but drink beer Diet Coke here every summer and watch the greenery grow.

Yesterday I dragged our summer table set, what'dya call those things, you know, with an umbrella and cushy chairs? Just a table set? I feel like there's an official word for them that is escaping me at this hour? Anyway, the table and umbrella is set up, the barbeque, the fire pit and the citronella candles. Even though my neighbors are all a stone's throw I can't ever see them for all the trees surrounding my yard. God bless the gay men and their innate decorating skills.

It's light now until 9, 9:30. It's quite dark now but I've been sitting here, dogs at my feet, since purple streaked the sunset sky, then dark gray and now midnight blue. A dog is barking a few streets away but my fellows are down there on the brick patio, chins on paws, sawing logs. Violet is asleep. Serge too. I am wide awake.