Mortified

We’re sitting on the porch again, drinking spiced rum and Red Bull. Her dirty bare feet rest on an ottoman of three stacked tires. She waves a fly away from her face and says, “I’ve been evaluating myself.”

“Oh yeah?” I say after a sip of my rapidly warming drink. We’re drinking out of Styrofoam cups, using a closed toilet lid as a table. It’s a kind of Duchampian statement (my words). She had to replace her toilet recently so now the old one sits here between us. She rarely throws anything away. Her collection of microbrew beer bottles should be nominated as a new Wonder of the World.  

“Yeah,” she says. “I think I might be dealing with low self-esteem.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I avoid certain discussions because I’m afraid I’ll reveal too much and make a fool of myself.”

“Like what?”

She gazes toward the street. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” 

“Okay.”

She finishes her drink and I quickly mix her another.