Barefoot and Pregnant In Des Moines
W. P. Kinsella
We're not poor anymore," I say, almost shout. "We can afford for you to fly out and join me, any time you want to."
The French doors are closed, and the air conditioner breathes unobtrusively in the background, like a large, sleeping pet. Gwen is wearing a dress the color of green liqueur. Her nyloned legs are crossed delicately at the ankles; her short, dark hair gleams enticingly. She sits forward on the sofa, her green eyes intent. Her lipstick and nail polish are a matching cardinal red.
When Gwen is like this, intent, sincere, lips slightly parted, eyes focused on my face, waiting for me to say something, I find it almost impossible to believe she doesn't understand my feelings, doesn't comprehend how she tears me to pieces with her indifference, her deception. She is so darkly beautiful; my heart feels like a frog held in cupped hands.
