Objects of My Affection Read Online Free Page B

you see here, pink is for anything that’s trash, yellow is recycling, blue is charity, purple is yard sale, orange is auction—”
    â€œCharity should be orange,” Marva says.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œCharity. I’ve always thought of it more as orange, not blue. Blue is for recycling. Everyone knows that.”
    â€œUm … okay … we can switch that.” I start rifling through my bag. If I learned anything from my years in advertising and PR, it’s to placate the client. “I’m sure I have a Sharpie in here. We can make any changes you’d like. After all, you’re the artist!”
    â€œAnd why isn’t there green?”
    â€œGreen? I just—”
    â€œGreen is a very calming color. I can’t imagine going through this process, using these tags of yours, and not one of them being green.”
    â€œNo problem. I can get green. For now we can substitute a different color that’s close to green—like we could use blue and yellowtogether, right? That makes green.” I find the Sharpie pen and wait with it poised at the chart. “What category is green to you?”
    Marva grabs for her cane and uses it to hoist herself to standing. “I can’t see this working as it is. Tell you what: You run get those green tabs and make the changes to your chart. In the meantime, I have other things I need to handle. Perhaps we can reconvene later this afternoon.”
    Perhaps? This afternoon? It’s not as if I can get started without her. She has to approve everything I do. “We don’t have to bother with the tags right now,” I say. “You could point to things, and I can—”
    â€œI’ll be in my office. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
    She goes to the refrigerator and pulls out what appears to be a boxed lunch.
    Oh, no, she’s bringing provisions. I could lose the whole day. “How will I know when you’re ready?” My voice is a desperate squeak. I can’t help myself. If day one sets a tone for how this project is going to go, it’s looking grim.
    â€œIf I’m ready later today, I’ll come find you,” she says as she disappears down the hall. I hear a door shut.
    I flop down into the chair Marva vacated. So much for diving right in.
    T wo o’clock. Marva has yet to emerge. I’ve been checking at regular intervals, peeking down the hall for signs of life. In the meantime, I bought those stupid green Post-its (and a bunch of other colors and patterns, too, just in case) and grabbed lunch.
    Then to kill time, I decide to rearrange what Will called the bungalow so I can use it as an office. It’s a converted one-car garage—tiny, with thankfully no car squeezed inside. I guess if you don’t go anywhere, you don’t need one. The bungalow is separated from the main house by two enormous oaks and accessible by a side driveway. What was once the garage door is now a wall, and there are curtainedwindows and a bathroom. It is potentially quite cozy. More important, it’ll make a nice place to hide from Marva.
    And based on the empty pop cans and fast-food wrappers I see stuffed in a trash can, I’m not the first to have this idea.
    I sustain only minor injuries as I shove things around to make room, even managing to single-handedly drag down a couch that was standing on end.
    Mmm, a couch.
    I could use a break. It’s been such a frustrating day so far. Couldn’t hurt to lie down and relax. Rest my weary bones. Take a few moments to contemplate my next move …
    T he dream bubble pops above my head.
    Eerf. I must’ve fallen asleep. My face is smashed into a couch pillow. I feel sticky and muddled and … ugh. What is that smell ?
    I attempt to tug my eyes open and drag myself up.
    â€œHey, lookit here, Sleeping Beauty is waking up.” At the sound of a male voice, my eyes fly open like a window shade with a haywire spring.