Anastasia, Ask Your Analyst
“After school, when she had found the piece of cold chicken to gnaw on, the refrigerator had looked almost totally empty to her. It looked like the kind of refrigerator that might belong to starving peasants in India: a couple cans of beer, a carton of eggs, and a few plastic containers of leftovers. In the shelves on the inside of the door were all those things that lived in refrigerators for centuries: mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, horseradish, and salad dressing.
And in the drawer at the bottom, the drawer that said "crisper" on it, was nothing but a folder full of poems. Her father was almost finished writing a new book of poetry, and he always kept his unfinished manuscripts in the refrigerator drawer, the place where normal people kept lettuce. He said that if the house ever burned down, the refrigerator probably wouldn't burn, so his unpublished book would be safe.
There had been a time—when she was younger and more naive—Anastasia had thought that was really neat. During that t...ime she had always opened the refrigerator when friends were visiting, to show them the crisper full of poems, with great pride.MoreLess
And in the drawer at the bottom, the drawer that said "crisper" on it, was nothing but a folder full of poems. Her father was almost finished writing a new book of poetry, and he always kept his unfinished manuscripts in the refrigerator drawer, the place where normal people kept lettuce. He said that if the house ever burned down, the refrigerator probably wouldn't burn, so his unpublished book would be safe.
There had been a time—when she was younger and more naive—Anastasia had thought that was really neat. During that t...ime she had always opened the refrigerator when friends were visiting, to show them the crisper full of poems, with great pride.MoreLess
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