No, I said, I swear this is only the beginning, and she nodded. Her eyes showed this was not the answer she sought. Or it might have had more to do with being in such a strange place to begin with.
We were in this dumb room full of swans. One with skinny windows and oak trees and no one could find us there. This room was tucked away in a big old Victorian at the edge of the woods, done up with French doors and pink paint and a sunroof and a bunch of gardens and of course Saint Francis of Assisi was watching.
She hiked her skirt above her knees and started pissing on all the windows and the oak trees and the roses and the lilies and the gilded mirror and the marble vanity and the mahogany desk set and the hundreds and hundreds of paintings of girls in white dresses.
Then she started pissing on the swans so they would flutter toward the ceiling where their skulls would shatter against the glass.
The swans were really getting on my nerves. I never said I liked swans. I never said I liked this house. Both gave me the creeps, I have to admit that.
She doesn’t have much time left and there’s only so much you can piss on in a day. But then it’s just one dumb room in a huge house no one really knows about, what harm is there in that.
Besides, I would probably follow her just about anywhere.