Objects of My Affection Read Online Free Page A

of driving a car so sexy. Even when running errands around town, the Mustang suddenly made me feel as if I weren’t the mom with her hair shoved back in a ponytail but, rather, the girl who dared wear black fishnets to the wedding. It brought out a side in me I didn’t know was there. That’s why, when I’m financially flush again, I plan to restore my car to its former glory. Put the top down and ride off into my shiny new life.
    But I get ahead of myself.
    â€œMorning!” I call out cheerily as I climb from the car. Marva is wearing a fuchsia print caftan and lots of bangly jewelry. Her legs are crossed, and I can see she’s in flip-flops, though it can’t be more than fifty degrees out. I grab the carry bag of organizational supplies Ibrought and head up to the porch. “Looks like it’s trying real hard to be sunny out today.”
    She takes a drag on her cigarette and gives a noncommittal nod.
    â€œIt’s been so rainy lately.”
    When there’s no reaction from her, I say, “I’m Lucy. I’m here to—”
    â€œI know who you are.”
    â€œOkay, great then.”
    Not certain how to proceed, I make a show of noticing a bush off to the side of her porch. “Does that flower?”
    â€œPlease don’t feel that you need to make chitchat. I quite enjoy the morning quiet.”
    â€œIt is nice, isn’t it? So peaceful. I remember once when I lived right off a busy street and I’d wake up every morning to—”
    Marva is barely suppressing her irritation as she looks away.
    Oh. Right.
    Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I say, “Do you mind if I show myself inside and take another look around? You can let me know when you’re ready to get started.”
    She waves her cigarette in the direction of the front door, which I take to mean go on in, so I do.
    Squeezed into the living room, I’m startled all over again by the squalor. How does anyone get used to this?
    For the next hour, I poke in any closets, drawers, and cupboards I can manage to wriggle into. It’s funny what you can learn about people by what they keep. For example, I am learning that Marva might be a pack rat, but she’s not a slob. There is a difference. Although there’s a ton of stuff here, it isn’t garbage. No food or dirty bowls or snuffed-out cigarettes, at least that I’ve seen. Then again, anything could pop up. My toes scrunch at the idea of mice scurrying across them.
    At one point I am wedged beneath the dining table—butt in the air reaching for what I thought might be a huge diamond ring but turned out to be a broken piece of a chandelier—when I hear Marva: “May as well get this show on the road. What’s your plan, Princess?”
    â€œI have one!” I say, overeagerly I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I drag myself from beneath the table and face Marva, who is seated in the one cleared chair in the kitchen. “I have one,” I say again, calmly this time, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in her little nickname for me. “A plan on how to proceed. I believe you’re going to be very happy with it.”
    I pull the organizational system I spent much of last night devising from my bag, setting it on a tiny cleared space on the kitchen counter. I feel like an advertising exec giving a pitch to a client—but that’s fine. Marva needs to be on board or it’s not going to work. So I need to sell, sell, sell. The lucky news: I’m using Post-its. Who doesn’t love an organizational system with Post-its?
    â€œTo start, I’d like to free up space, so that means clearing out some of the larger items first. I have these”—I hold up a handful of Post-its in a variety of colors—“so we can tag where each item is to go.” Then I hold up the chart I designed on the computer—a pie chart , because who doesn’t love pie charts? “As