Two short stories from a truly versatile writer: 'The Glass Woman' and 'The Sameness of Birthdays'
Feeding time. The Glass Woman in her glass box swallowed tomato soup, home-made, bright red, and we watched as it traveled to her stomach where, when she moved gently, it swayed like liquid in a wave machine.
We watched as she ate a dinner roll, tiny mouthfuls, she lolled her head back and let the chewed food slip down her throat. We watched it bounce as she swallowed.
We saw her blood. If we watched closely, paid extra to stand with our palms against the warm glass box, we could see the blood river, flowing, flowing, the rythym matching her heart which we could also see.
It was my fourth time to see the Glass Woman. I was still not comfortable coming to this neighbourhood. I didn't have the style, the shoes, the clothes, the walk. I didn't have the sex. This is a man's neighbourhood. The women here stay indoors, because everything is provided within each high house. There are worlds in there, movie theatres, swimming pools, beds which make movies as you lie on them.
The men are on the streets. They walk to their cars, to another home, they meet at this house where the Glass Woman lives and they are comfortable, they know how to walk on marble floors.
I didn't disguise myself. They would pick me out, anyway, you're not one of us.
I'm nothing like them. And yet I cannot keep away from the Glass Woman.
