In which I am confronted by a superhero
I’m hitting fast forward to skip the gruesome bits of an Icelandic mystery when she erupts into my apartment flinging the locked door open and stands there, golden-braceleted, red-booted, lasso in hand. You’re wasting your life, she says. I just saved the Prime Minister of Namibia. It’s 2:30 pm and I’m still in my pajamas. Well, I like your crown I mumble. I’ve just deflected a thousand bullets she replies What about you? I tell her it must be hard being a role model and that she looks tired. She sighs, hands on her hips. I know she expects more of me as a woman. I should get off the couch, learn Icelandic, quit my job. I scooch over. She sits down, then stretches out, resting her head in my lap. I stroke her black hair ‘til she sleeps. I’m not bothered by her gentle snore, her boots scuffing the couch, her crown digging into my thigh, or the broken door. Later, I’ll fix us some tea. We all have our superpowers.