All I knew about her was her name and her employer. “If you know about that,
then you’ll be aware that the circumstances were such that the police and my legal representatives were the only visitors permitted,” I said.
She gawped at me. I was reminded of those clowns’ heads in fairgrounds,
the ones where you try to throw a Ping-Pong ball into their gaping mouths in order to win a goldfish.
I opened the door for her, watching her eyes swivel repeatedly toward the giant customized frog.
“I’ll see you in six months then, Eleanor,” she said reluctantly. “Best of luck.”
I closed the door with excessive gentleness behind her. She hadn’t remarked upon Polly, I thought, which was odd.
Ridiculously, I felt almost slighted on Polly’s behalf. She’d been sitting in the corner throughout our meeting,
and was clearly the most eye-catching thing in the room.
My beautiful Polly, prosaically described as a parrot plant, sometimes referred to as a Congo cockatoo plant,
but always known to me, in her full Latinate glory, as Impatiens niamniamensis.
I say it out loud, often: niamniamensis. It’s like kissing, the “m”s forcing your lips together,
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