The phone sings. His greeting is answered by a tidal wave of words. He brings the phone back to his head.
“We’re lovers. I do like that. I tell you again, that’s the limit. You’re not my kind; I’m not yours.”
A second wave. The light on the left side of the bed is on. So are the ones on the desk and in the hallway.
“Oh, babe. You act your age. You are a child, I have a child.”
His daughter was in a new country. His sister is also there. Help in case of need.
“It was still early when we kissed good-bye. I know you hate it when I go. It’s business.”
A room just like all the others. A king-sized bed, a desk and a 27″ flat screen TV.
“It’s too far, I can’t just come back.”
He interrupts her chorus.
“OK, well, I don’t run from heat. I’m working. I wear black shoes, you wear sandals.”
“You’re going. I get it. Friends. I’ll be here. Just friends.”
He puts down the phone, picks up a condom.
“You are my lover and I do like you
But what’s the limit, tell me what to do
I’m not your kind
And you’re not mine
Oh sugar I’m too young for you
Not like my number but in everything I do
I am a child, you have a child
You wake up early, I do anything I can
But I can fake it while you go and meet the man
And make some money (money!)
To make the money
Tell me where you are
I’ll come and meet you
But you know I can go far
And take some time
You can’t have mine
Well OK honey
But I’m too hot for you
Ain’t got no money
And I wear the hippie shoes
I am a hippie (hippie!)
I am a hippie
I hope you understand
I’ll need you later
I want you in my band
I am your sister (sister!)
You’re like my brother” — Jenny O., “Well OK, Honey,” Home (2010)