Martha. That's it. That must be it. Her name must be Martha. No. 
Martha, too good. Martha, in the kitchen. No. Not Martha. Not 
Martha.

Kristine. Kristine. That's it. Kristine must be it. No. Kristine, 
too young. Too sweet. Too sugary, Kristine. No, not Kristine. Not 
Kristine.

I am expecting a nondescript name, for she --- is a nondescript 
woman. She is, and has always been a mystery to me: she hides 
behind smiles that are directed to us every morning. And every 
morning, her eyes sparkle, always cheery to begin the day in 
front of us:

     Focus: I am here, because I am that exist.
     I exist to benefit from existence, and what if offers,
     among many things, are lovely days beneath the sun,
     to be with, to be in the back of, this woman.

     Focus: She is there, because she is called
     by fate to stand in front of me. Not beside,
     but in front. She is there, her arms at a slight
     degree as are mine. The difference is, 
     she became a swan.

     Focus: Bob is there, the one who is beside, 
     because he is alliterative: he is bedside Bob:
     big, bald, bouncy. He is there, because he wants
     to be.


She is nameless because I lack courage. I hide behind my own 
smiles, in this charcoal-brown sweater, in this closet space of
pretension because I exist. I exist no more.

     Focus: I am made mute. I listen too much 
     to society that appropriates me. I have become
     that stereotype of an old, white, widowed man, 
     just waiting for overwhelming death to overtake me.

     Focus: She is flexible. She bends lower 
     than us. Because, like clay, she could be molded,
     and silenced to perfection.

     Focus: Bob: He is looking at a woman 
     not his wife. Like black teeth, he is dead 
     in the vein.


Who could save me now, but she, this sugar-plastic woman, 
formidable in her namelessness? I dare not talk to her, for I 
am not worthy. No. Again, I am concealing myself with the mask
of humility. Truth: I do not trust conversations.

I am not a fan of subtexts. Conversations have subtexts, 
connotations, are sometimes covert, are clouded by the cult of
etiquette: "How are you? I am fine" (even though you are not).
They sometimes deceive. As I bury my pain behind a smile, 
she could hide herself behind her name. I cannot trust "I am
Martha": what if she is not? But I realize I have no time for 
questioning, this inane cynicism doesn't suit me, is not 
appropriate at this stage: I am not getting any younger.


     Question: If I could transpose myself onto
     her place, and she mine, would she study me as I do her?

     Hypothesis: She would not focus on me, but on
     a spot on my back. She would be the same, baring 
     her neatly-rowed prosthetic teeth at an absence.

     Answer: All this --- remains to be seen.


I should have an amount of faith in conversations, on 
appearances: if not, I will have nothing. Consider everything
reasonable valid. Names are harmless. I should ask hers, only if
I would have the courage. I fear names because they could place
things in context. Martha, good. Martha, in the kitchen. Bob,
bedside Bob. Frank. Most Frank's I know are of the same quality.
"Oh he looks like a Frank, or he a George."


     Agenda: Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I should, will,
     maybe, pat her on the shoulder and ask her what
     her name is, and the answer would perhaps shatter
     my world, my impressions of her. But for now, I
     will let her pose and be framed in the picture, and
     allow her to be that figure: nameless.