Geisha

In this dream I hire myself out -- am hired out -- to a family in another country. I do not speak the language. it is Christmas and they are not celebrating. A highrise apartment in a November city. I am given the smallest bedroom. The view is of another wall of brick and glass, a swirl of newspaper below. There are two twin beds. I take the one furthest from the door.

I have a dark dress and a light dress. I have slips and stockings and heeled sandals.

I remember the orientation. A grey man, civilized, buffed nails and tweed. "It is expected, but it is optional. You will never be forced." He gives me three empty candleholders: they are old and iron, red rust beneath lampblack, pierce-work holes almost furred shut. "When you are ready --"

I go out into the kitchen. Help the mother set the table. Watch the father stand at the window. The woman speaks English well though stiffly -- but together we speak French, my terrible fragmented French. Let us be true to the awkwardness between us. And also this truth: we cannot speak about this.

I put on the dark dress. Put on the white dress. My slip hangs ghostly from a hat stand. It is a modern hat stand, black plastic with black plastic knobs. I'm ironing. The ironing board is pastel stripped. I put the iron candleholder on the ironing board. I begin to sleep in the bed nearest the door.