#189 The Mess page 4. A little light reading.

by Susan Plant

God (only an exclamation), like any criminal worth the name, I long to confess, but it’s too personal, and I’m not the type who thinks everything and anything should be said aloud or broadcast (in the generic sense). We would like to do that, though, wouldn’t we? If we could do that and still be loved, well, that’s kind of an ideal.

Nobody has anything on me. They were all over me, I’ve had a lot of tap-dancing done on my head, but no one has anything on me. I don’t pretend to know him. No, honestly, sometimes I do pretend to know something of what it is to be him. But, you see how I’m wondering about him? About who he is? Strangely, it’s as though he curls up inside of me while, simultaneously, not wondering who I am. I’m generous with him. I don’t think I’ll do anything . . . but you never know. You know what they say about certain crimes. Anybody might do it. No, no, I couldn’t. Did I mention love? No? (Yes, you did.) That was honest, anyway.

I’m a serious person. Demeaned by this brevity. But it’s all I’m allowed. I feel a sickness creeping towards me. It’s a mystery. The only thing that’s real. I think it’s that mystery on all fours creeping towards me. The sole reality. As it is, the blessed confession is curdled inside me. Cursed closure. It’s personal, that’s all.