Midnight blue feather on the side of my hair. Black silk turtleneck to my chin, black leotards, silver belt.

Last, I buckle the ankle straps of my five inch, Joan Crawford style, platform silver leather shoes. I had found them in one of those moviestar thrift stores where costumes and fabulous things collect dust. They fit me perfectly.

I turn on the pink lamp by the window and it drops a glow the color of sunset and then I turn on my computer. I sit on the leather desk chair in front of my computer. A pale orange rose is…


Before The Pandemic:

“He is an author! You two have a lot in common,” Joanne says on the phone. “He’s seventy something and he’s been on CNN with Don Lemon. His book Deception is about our lousy government. “It’s getting a huge audience.”

Nathan calls. He is articulate, and sounds smart. We decide to meet at North Beach for dinner.

I deck out in black skinny pants, snakeskin ankle high heel boots, a black feather poked on the side of my hair. I’m legally blind in one eye, so I take a taxi.

I arrive at Joes. A haze of…


Peeing

I pee when I have orgasms. I pee when I jump. I pee if I sit too fast. Run too fast. Laugh too hard. Everyone pees. Dogs pee. Movie stars pee. Aliens probably pee.

I pee when I get nervous. I’m a nervous person. I pee in my dreams. I think I’m on ¯the toilet peeing and then I wake up. I wear depends in case I pee. Age has nothing to do with peeing. My nephew Benny is thirty-two and wears Depends because he has some sort of peeing condition. Believe me, not peeing is no picnic. Why…


Anyway fall is beautiful in San Francisco. I get this memo from my new editor and I start working with her. She’s pretty good, unlike some of the witch editors I’ve had in the past — mostly these bitch women types who look at their vaginas in the mirrors in the bathtub, or quote Virginia Woolf. This one sounds about twelve, fresh out of the Iowa Writing Program, but she sounds human anyway.

So I’m on the phone with her this morning and she has this voice like the twenty something girls and every sentence with a question , her…


I’m wheeled into the Xray room, where these two nice technicians inject dye into my arm. As I slide in and out of the humongous machine, the tall lanky technician about thirty, tells the other technician that he isn’t feeling well because someone infected, coughed in his face.

“Oh my God. Am I safe?” I ask, my breath puffing the mask over my mouth.

“Breathe deep!” the technician shouts. “ Don’t Talk! We’re starting!”

So as I slide in and out of the fucking machine, holding my breath and praying I don’t die from the virus, I zone out and…


I hate my lips. Once they were full and pouty, but now they’re disappearing. As if that’s not bad enough I have an overbite so now that the lips are disappearing, I’m terrified that my veneers are sticking out slightly buck. Who knew?

Carefully I draw the burgundy liner pencil along my lips, extending the lines longer. No way will I get fillers, as my friends who do, have fish lips like Kylie Jenner, and I hate that look. What disturbs me about my thinning lips as not only are my pretty veneers buck out and when I eat I…


He opens Tuesday, and removes three tiny white pills. He places them in a neat row on the table. “Anti-depressants,” he informs me. “I had a crazy second wife. She was my assistant, a gorgeous twenty-two year old gold-digger! When I wouldn’t sign a new will, she banged her head on the wall, and then sued me for divorce. In court under oath she said I beat her up. I had to give her millions. The girl made Honey Boo Boo look smart.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be with women so young.”

“Women over sixty have widow’s humps, arthritis, and…


SOCIAL DISTANCE DATE

I buckle the ankle straps on my three-inch Joan Crawford high heel shoes. I love these shoes. They represent glamour and romance and fun. I have a date. A social distance date. Walter Blumberg is a 79 year old tax lawyer I met on NextDoor.com. His e-mails were smart, well written, and his profile seemed intelligent. A thumbnail photo showed loopy hair, and an intelligent face. I use my usual photo a friend took on his phone but it’s recent. We agreed to meet at an outdoor café for a drink and dinner. This is the first…


Poor Monica Lewinsky. Her legacy is a blow job. Not only that, her good blue dress is now in a museum for bad girls. What’s all the fuss about?

In my generation the blowjob was considered porno. As I got older, had two husbands, and an array of lovers, the blowjob was the secret to riches. “No matter how lousy a lover, ugly, or handsome during sex, there comes a certain stillness, a glazed look in his eyes, and he whispers, “Blow me.” Next his pencil thin to fat, to long aperture is shoved into your mouth. So I squeezed…


“Anyhoo,” Sandy continues in her raspy voice, on the phone. “I met a seventy-one year real estate tycoon at Monica Bergman’s zoom memorial. He lost his wife a year ago and invited me to a social distance dinner. He seems really hot. He’s Google hot too. One of those pin-stripe suit rich attorneys. He said his wife fell out of a window.’’

“Maybe he pushed her.’’ Sandy is sixty-eight, A yoga teacher, and divorced. She sits on her huge Lazy-Boy leather chair, sipping white wine. “Anyway, he’s a hottie. We had sex with our masks on. He already sent sprays…

Barbara Rose Brooker

Barbara Rose Brooker, author/teacher/poet/MFA, published 13 novels. Her latest novel, Feb 2020, Love, Sometimes, published by Post Hill Press/Simon Schuster.

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