A Song in the Daylight. Paullina Simons

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      “Oh, yeah. It slows down your Krebs cycle to a crawl. It interferes with the enzyme that receives the oxygen molecule. Terrible if you’re trying to lose weight. What, you didn’t know?”

      “I didn’t know,” she said slowly, frowning at him. “How do you know?”

      “Ninth grade bio.” Instead of frowning, he smiled. “Not that you should care about losing weight,” he said. “See ya. Keep warm.”

      “Yeah, you too.” She wanted to ask him his name, but didn’t dare. Ninth grade bio!

      Bo called as soon as Larissa got home. “My life is being slowly destroyed,” she said. “Today she told me she was going blind. Blind! I said, Mother, have you tried your glasses? They’re right on the nightstand. Oh God. I’m leaving work early today to take her to the eye doctor. Can I come over first?”

      “How can you not?” said Larissa. She liked Bo, who was stately and attractive and deliberate in her movements, but what she liked best about Bo was that she could hide herself in the fray of Bo’s graceful self-absorption.

4

       “Moisten Your Head with Lubricant”

      “Do you refuse to give me an answer?” said Ezra incredulously, cornering her in the kitchen after another late January week passed. Her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies would burn if she didn’t take them out right now.

      “Ezra, excuse me.” Oven mitts on, Larissa opened the oven door. Damn. Overdone by two minutes.

      He sighed behind her. “I thought you were going to think about it.”

      “I have thought about it.” She took out a clanging metal cookie rack.

      “Well, think some more. Think until you give me the answer I want.”

      Giggling, she started to scrape the cookies onto a cooling rack. “I can’t do it. I don’t have the time.”

      “What the hell are you talking about? You have from eight till two each and every day to dedicate to the unfailing pursuit of theatrical excellence.”

      “Only in your limited and one-dimensional world,” said Larissa, “do I have nothing to do from eight till two.”

      “Lar,” said Jared, pouring drinks and always ready to instigate, “tell our friends how long it takes you to get out of the house.”

      Larissa stayed quiet!

      “How long?” said Ezra. “Thirty minutes?”

      “Thirty?” said Jared, raising his eyebrows. “Tell him, Lar.”

      After veal shank and rice with corn, and everyone full and relaxed at the table, Larissa told them.

      Did this seem unreasonable?

Brushing teeth, etc.	5 minutes
Shower	15 minutes
Drying	5 minutes
Drying smaller parts, like ears	5 minutes
Lotioning	10 minutes
Makeup	20 minutes
Getting dressed	10 minutes
Hair	30 minutes
Jewelry	5 minutes
Misc tasks, e.g. shoes, purse	10 minutes
Total:	1 hour, 55 minutes

      

      “That’s without dawdling, making coffee, or doing a single thing for any of the kids,” Larissa finished.

      “Is this a joke?”

      “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

      Ezra stammered. “Jared, you allow this?”

      “I don’t allow it, that’s just how long it takes.” Jared gazed at Larissa.

      “But it takes me fifteen minutes!”

      “Ezra,” Larissa said calmly, “I’ve seen you spend longer in the bathroom when you have company.”

      Ezra whirled to Maggie. “How long does it take me?”

      “Fifteen minutes,” replied Maggie.

      “I shave, five minutes, shower, five minutes, I put on my clothes, five more minutes. Done.”

      “Yeah. So? What does your business have to do with my business?”

      “You weren’t always like this. You weren’t like this in college!”

      “In college, Ezra? We walked around in the same pair of jeans for weeks! We were theater hippies. We prided ourselves on not washing. Things have changed.”

      “Clearly.”

      They all tried that Saturday night to make Larissa more efficient at getting beautiful so she could become a drama director for Pingry.

      “Why do you have to put lotion on?”

      “You want me to have scaly skin, Ezra? Like a snake?”

      “I don’t care either way, but you won’t be scaly.”

      “I will be. My husband likes touching soft skin.”

      All inebriated eyes turned from wine to the husband.

      “I do like the soft skin,” admitted the sheepish, grinning husband, his shaggy gray-brown hair falling over his forehead, his hand reaching out to scrub Larissa’s cheek.

      “Why can’t you let your hair dry naturally?” suggested Ezra. “You’ll cut thirty minutes right there.”

      “Because I will look a fright.” Larissa suddenly remembered the bike dude’s disquisition on women and hair, and became uncomfortable, in her own home, recalling laughing at a stranger in the parking lot.

      “You can’t possibly,” said Maggie. “You would look beautiful no matter what. Your hair looks so pretty now.”

      “Took me forty-five minutes. Thirty to blow dry and fifteen more to get it into a bun that looks casually messy.” Larissa gracefully moved on from the freeform poetry of hair. “Why do you want me to be dry, disheveled, down?”

      “Because I want you to direct the spring play,” said Ezra. “Why do you spend five minutes on jewelry? You don’t need jewelry to go to the supermarket, do you?”

      “More than anywhere else,” Larissa replied. “Obviously you’ve never been to the supermarket. Do you know how many times I hear, I like your necklace, your earrings, your bracelet?”

      “No, how many?” asked Jared, poking her, his eyes glinting.

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