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7. AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO Sunday, July 23, 2023.

Someone's knocking in my dream. I see a guy, knocking on an apartment door. It's not my apartment; not my door. I wake up. Someone's knocking on the storm door. Is that... no. I see Petreace! She's shading her eyes with her hands, trying to see in. I stumble over there. Petreace turns away. I see... that girl whose name I'm not sure of standing out by the back of her fancy-smancy car. I unlock the storm door.

"You have a visitor!" Petreace turns back to me, says, less than light-heartedly I think. "She didn't want to knock on your door. I did!" Patreace comes closer, looks at my face, searches, left eye, right eye, eyes up at my hair. She smiles. She turns and goes down the sidewalk. She hugs Ileace. She and I stand and watch as Petreace goes on down toward her apartment down on the end, by the woods. The moon is on high, casting moon shadows.

Ileace comes up. I hold the storm door open wide, step aside. I feel too drowsy to wake up. She turns around just inside the room, arms crossed. No cell phone. I lock the storm door, close the inside door, lock it.

"Did you lock your car?" I ask. I don't wait for an answer. I turn and she turns, walks over to the couch ahead of me, sits in the middle. I stumble back to the back door, close it, lock it. I come into the living room, pick up my water bottle, stumble over there, flop on the end. I miss, hit the arm, bounce into her shoulder, straighten up. "Sorry!" I mumble. I stretch. It makes me want to lay down but... she's... in the damned way!

"Someone's lying to me," she says, quietly. I don't say anything. I can't process it right now. I don't want to process it right now.

"You're not denying it!" she goes on, her voice a little louder, a little more irritated. I don't like the accusation, the tone of her voice.

"It's... likely... a true statement," I murmur. I'm coming awake. I don't want to come awake. I do, too. And don't either.

"My Mother says you're a skilled player of games, a user, who has probably read all kinds of books on how to manipulate people," she rattles on. I can barely listen. Its all about what 'My Mother says..."

"Did you tell your Mother about me?" I ask. I yawn, try to hide it. I'm so sleepy. She doesn't answer. I wait.

"Yes," she says, at last.

"Like, before tonight, last night," I say, realizing that if Petreace is home it must be after closing time, Sunday morning. I wonder what time the exorcists get up.

"I kind of...," she stops, goes on, "told my Mother... all about you."

"You told her I had a lot of books?" I say, asking, not telling, but like a statement. I gesture at boxes, book shelves.

"Yes," she says.

"You don't know what kind of books I have. They're nonfiction, mostly, history," I tell her. "You didn't look at them did you?" No reply. "So there's the book thing. No... foundation for it."

"You told her I wrote songs; 'made up' songs. You told her where Cubby's was. You told her you were coming. You told her... you had to tell her where you spent that... Saturday night, so the exorcists could find my apartment," I blather. I think I'm funny. I don't care what she thinks.

"Yes," she says. "Mom says your songs are about me. She says... I told her about you wanting me to put you on my list... She says that's what "Get To Me" is about, getting to you on my list. She says the line about not getting any younger is about you saying, 'That's how old men flirt'. She says, your other song is about getting impatient, wanting to move things along... to... to sex, 'Enough's enough', she says, and she says, it's about you wanting my car, wanting to ride in it and drive it."

"Sweet Baby Jesus!" I say. "You told her all that... that... detail? Song lyrics and conversation?" I look at her in the dark. She nods in affirmation. "Oh. And she heard me sing it all. And she remembered it all? Your Mother should be a music reviewer. Does she have a podcast?"

"Did you write those songs about me?" She's sitting up, pulls her left leg up on the couch, turning sideways to face me.

"No. I told you I wrote them back in January. "Get To Me" anyway. I can't find where I wrote, "Come On, Baby!" down. Maybe I didn't."

"Didn't what?" she says.

"Write it down," I explain. "I may have put it on a song-writing website I go to and forgot to put it on paper." I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. I'm groggy. She's here! I want to... wake up, give her my full attention, participate in this... conversation. Or just bite her. Talk. Bite. Either one. Or sleep. If I could wake up and talk, that'd be okay. If I could bite her. Those shoulders. Damn! She gets up, goes to my laptop, flips it up, turns it on. It boots.

"What's the website?" she demands. I tell her.

"You're actually going to... investigate?" I ask, drop my thought of objecting, say, "Okay."

She's got it up. I can see the familiar main page. "Where is it?"

I go and kneel on the carpet beside her. Damn, she smells good! Her naked left shoulder is right there, by my face, on my list of eleven places I want to bite her. Five of the eleven places I want to... I find myself indulging in lust for her, no longer feeling like I... respect her... and want or am willing to take it slow, her schedule. I'm... I know... I'm not in control of my emotions. This is a bad time to be trying to make sense of things.

"Lyrics Library," I say, "Lyrics Library 2. No. Just Lyrics Library Forum," I correct myself. "That one," I say, pointing. "And 'Showcase'," I add. She finds it way down the page. She clicks and opens it. "Page 6," I say, but I'm not logged in so it doesn't show up in six pages; just two. I point at the Page 1 Table of Contents. "It's way down at the bottom of the last page," I tell her. Clickety click. I remember. She's reading the lyric.

"Do you expect me to believe," she says, "that you wrote 'Show me how you shift four-on-the-floor' before you met me? In a song about 'Start it up! Drive me to the mountain! Take me to the sea!'?"

"Actually," I confess, "I think I put that in... after I met you. It just came out... ad lib... one day when I was playing the song. And... it made me think of you... and... I like thinking of you," I declare boldly, looking at the side of her face. I'm thinking, 'I used to like thinking of you!' but I don't say it. "I liked it better than what I had in that line. I can change it back." I can't remember what I had in that line. I can't change it back. I can think of something else though. If... we don't work through this... I won't be able to enjoy singing that line... or playing that song.

"I no longer have any expectations for you to believe, Ileace" I say. "You believe what... your Mother tells you to believe. I respect your... judgment about me. You don't know me well enough to... have a... a level of... trust in me. I don't know you either. Hey!" I remember, jpfolks posts archive the date of posting.
"Check the date of posting."

"December 13, 2022," she reads. Clickety-click. "January 5, 2023. Yeah. You... you told me you wrote one and later wrote the other one. Mom says you call me 'Baby' to make me think of you in the same way as I think of my Dad."

"But you said you have Daddy Issues. Why would I want you to think of me like that?" I argue, blindly, no idea how that argument fits the scenario. What the... Sweet Baby Jesus.

"Your Mother's probably read a lot of books on how to manipulate people," I say, regret my tone. "Ileace..." I stop. "What is your name. Do you realize I don't even know your name? She pronounces it, just that first name. "How do you spell it?" I ask.

"I-L-E-A-C-E," she spells. "I hate my name. I always have to tell people what it is, again, and again, and spell it. It was my Mother's Mother's sister's name."

"Wow. That's how I've been imagining it; imagining spelling it. Your Mother only said it once. The kids were saying it but I didn't know it was your name. I love it. It's unique. You're unique. You should have a unique name. The world didn't need another Brenda." Sorry, Brendas everywhere.

"Your grand-aunt," I say.

"What?" she says. "My grand-aunt?"

"Yes," I mumble. "Your grand-mother's sister is your grand-aunt."

"See? You say stuff like that, and I'm inclined to believe my Mother!" she says.

"Stuff about your grand-aunt?" I ask, "makes you inclined..."

"No, stuff like, 'you love my name'. You can't 'love' my name. We just met. You just found out what my name is!"

"Baby...", I start, stop, apologize, "I'm sorry. lleace, I don't want to insult your Mother, but..." I stop myself, refer to the Pull-Down-menu in my mind;
Option 1: Baby, that bitch is crazy!
Option 2: Darlin', that bitch is crazy!
Option 3: Bitch, that bitch is nuts!
Option 4: Who you gonna believe? Me? Or your lyin' eyes?
Option 5: Ileace, I want to lie down. When you decide what's going on, because you have no way of knowing what... whatever.

"Your Mother told me you were adopted," I tell her.

"What? I'm not adopted!" she exclaims. "She didn't tell you that!"

She's indignant! I think I'm close to getting my ass kicked! I look over my shoulder, check to see if I left any cutlery on the coffee table.

"I told her I saw the resemblance between you and her. She said, 'No you don't!' real..."

Pulldown menu...
Option 1: bitchy?...
Option 2: witchy'?

"witchy-like, and said, 'No you don't! She's adopted!'

"I was embarrassed. I thought she'd think I was just paying her a compliment, trying... trying to endear myself... trying to manipulate her, 'cause I read all those books you know."

I get another nervous 'Ha!" The joke landed!

'...and she'd caught me at it, and so she pointed out that you shouldn't resemble her if you're adopted. But she wears her hair like you do. I told her maybe that was why. You do look a lot alike."

I lull into exhaustion. I don't try to conceal my yawn, other than leaning my head down toward the edge of the desk.

"I like your hair," I mumble. I don't look at her, see her looking at me. "I like your name. I tried to recover, pointing that out, the haircuts. She was quiet. Then was back on the attack. I thought she had to be your Mother because she's as mean as you are!"

"I'm not mean!" Ileace argues, loud, mean. "I'm not mean," she repeats, quietly, calmly. I'm exhausted. Exfreakinzausted!

I get up, go lay on the couch. I put a pillow under my head, intertwine my fingers behind my head. I can look at her from here. Little witch! Pretty little... b... witch. I can't keep my eyes open. Eyes closed, I say,

"You were so mean that first night I met you, I nicknamed you Miss No!" I tell her that, laugh a little, eyes closed, peek out. "You kept coming back to some negative no matter what I said. I wasn't saying anything... calculated... just off the cuff remarks, just... That's when I decided that must be how old men flirt.
You asked me... You commanded me... to play a song. You said, 'Play a song... FOR me'. I said, 'Every song I play is for you, darlin'." I didn't calculate that. It just came into my addled brain and I said it. And you told me not to be rude! That wasn't rude! Clumsy maybe! I called you 'Baby'. You told me, 'Don't call me Baby'. Strike two. I thought I was clever saying, 'Don't let my banana get brown'. You accused me of being lewd!"

"No I didn't!" she... argues with slight enthusiasm.

"You said, 'Don't be nasty!' Strike three. Mean. Miss No."

"No I didn't," she says, quietly. She's looking at her hands, kind of... wringing them.

Hey! I think this stuff is landing. I open my eyes. I swing my legs off the couch, sit up, a little energy. No. Still tired. I slump forward, elbows on knees.

"I nicknamed your Mother 'Mrs. No'," I tell her. "As soon as she started her..."

Pulldown menu: no acceptable word.

"I thought, 'Whoa, Miss No, the girl whose name I don't know, is her Mother's daughter!'"

"Oh," Ileace says with mock dismay, "don't you know that's the worst thing you can say to a girl? That she's like her Mother?"

"No," I say. "It wasn't in all those books I read about how to manipulate people." She laughs. Not a surprised laugh; not a... nervous release laugh. An 'I got the joke' laugh. She scoots the chair, out, lays her head on her forearms, like... before. What that does to her back and shoulders, and... that top...

I lay back down. I don't think I can do this. I can't keep my eyes open. I lay on my right side, smell her on the pillow. There's some clickety clack. I perceive the light in the room change. I roll on my back. I want to go to sleep. Suddenly she's there, climbing across me, laying between me and the back of the couch. There's not enough room to lay between me and the back of the couch. She's... on me! I move to the edge a little, let her find her space. I reach and grab the t-shirt, sweat pants, lay them over on her. I picture the moonlight on that shoulder. She spreads the t-shirt over her torso. I reach and get the fuzzy blanket, just throw it on top of us, folded up.

I'm... asleep... It's... black and white... "The Wizard of Oz".

"And your little dog too!"

In the basket of the Wicked Witch's bike, I'm the little dog!