Geraldine has always gotten to have more fun.

She used to sing in a cabaret, she said.

She tells everyone her voice sounded like sequins.

She doesn’t realize we’ve been trapped in this room for twenty years now.

Sure, he moves us around, sometimes on the counter, sometimes at the table,

As if a new view will make me forget I can’t get around on my own.

Geraldine forgets where we were yesterday,

Forgets my name,

Forgets her name,

But laughs anyway, as though life’s a big joke that I don’t get.

Well, I can’t forget.

Every morning my name greets me as clear as glass. Agnes.

I can see through it.

Agnes has nothing to hide.

No mystery, no jack-in-the-box surprise to trigger a chuckle.

And every day, her plastic smile makes everyone like her more.

“Okay, Geraldine,” I say, patting her leg. “Have a good laugh now.”

But I’ll have the last one.