Genvieve starts each day with a glass of water and five pieces of liquorice. Medium soft from Tocca’s delicatessen. Bradbury’s is too doughy and sticks to her gums; Clancy’s is too tough and makes her jaw click. As she eats it, she looks through her kitchen window glass, warped and opaque, and pretends that she is somewhere else. Depending on the angle of the sun, she is looking through a porthole on a ship all at sea, or perhaps, if it is early, she is surrounded by the forests that grow thick in the tropics. Sometimes north becomes south. Each day it changes.
A friend once told her she should be happy with where she is and not to pretend to be elsewhere, but Genvieve says that is not why she makes believe when she is eating liquorice in the kitchen. She says she loves being right where she is. The reason she pretends to be somewhere else as she looks through the blurry window glass is to do her brain exercises. She makes where she is different, but she is still there. Here. She calls it Art in the Moment. Her friend says she does not understand.
Liquorice and water are the only routine moments in her day. Genvieve thinks it is sensible to start the day right. The doctor tells her there is nothing sensible about starting the day with liquorice. He says sugar is the devil. But Genvieve firmly believes in the healing properties of liquorice. She says if it is good for her heart, then it is good for her body. She believes liquorice calms her mind. It makes her smile. She says her daily dose is the reason for keeping headaches away. It keeps her breasts youthful and perky. The doctor just shakes his head, but he can find no trace of poor health in her body. He wonders why she visits and decides it is to prove him wrong about liquorice. He does not mind. It is working for her.
Photo by Jens Johnsson on Unsplash
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