Читать книгу No One You Know - Jason Schwartzman - Страница 9

I am in the kitchen, talking to my family’s housekeeper. She comes every few weeks and when she does, we talk in Spanish. We laugh, we are very friendly, have been a long time. Our dog, Indy, loves her. When she comes, Indy follows her everywhere, to the kitchen, the bathrooms, even out the door, to the hallway, the laundry. She wags her tail. We talk about Indy’s life sometimes, the slowness, the repetition. She sleeps, not much is ever different. The life of a dog.

I move out. Sometimes when I come back to visit, we overlap. We hug, we chat.

“How are you?” I ask.

I really want to know.

She is smiling but also not smiling.

“Always the same,” she says. “Like Indy.”

After her remark, I walk slowly back to my room.

She seals herself away in her headphones, to fastforward through work, as I do too. The comment haunts me. So harsh, seemingly. But how serious are people during greetings anyway? Later, before she goes home, I see her petting Indy, who has rolled over in blissful submission. She is giggling. And then she is off, returning to all the parts that are different, I hope. The door closes behind her.