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She's asleep when I enter the room. It's everything in one room, really. The kitchen, closet, table, the giant bed she's sprawled out on, one leg tangled up in the blanket and one arm thrown across the fat pillow her roommate used to use. The 6:30 am alarm goes off and she reaches for it. Quietness, again. Dim sunlight through the blinds.
I pull out a chair and sit down. The heavy marble table is between us. I watch her, expecting her to fall asleep again. She slept late. She doesn't fall asleep again, though her head is on top of the fat pillow still.
An hour later, she wakes up and gets off on her side of the bed--the one facing the giant mirrored aparador. She sees herself. I think it's at this point she realizes I'm outside her. Not exactly where I am (at the marble table, being patient and observant and reflective) but that something's off, and I am outside.
She's upset that it's Friday. I am endlessly amused by this. Well, I know she isn't upset that it's Friday per se, but that the excitement for the weekend has drained away a little bit. The upsetness courses through me. And then the anger.
This is why I'm glad I'm outside; maybe my outsideness will lessen the force of it. I see the anger come from different places. I'm angry at how easily her confidence is undermined. Angry at how one moment splits into ten billion.
I realize I've heard this story before. Two nights ago, when an old friend was talking about the multiverse and how in some alternate world, there would be a she and him. Toys and magic, umbrellas and raincoats and turtles. I remembered how sober she was; that all things were ground so firmly in the past. Accessible but immovable. A painting done and dried.
That's how all pasts are, for all people, right? It makes sense to the mind. I laugh. Around the table, I turn. And then the anger flickers, a little weaker this time.
She gets dressed and I move out of the way as she fumbles for her keys and journal and fountain pen. It's Friday. A phrase floats in the air, from two nights ago: You gave all you had to give. So what is the difference, now? When do you not? I am amused, still, as I follow her into the hallway, towards the elevators. There are certain things she wants, but cannot have. There is a time for everything. And so I am angry at the fact that she wants these things, these small reassurances, at this particular time. But I am only angry at her, because she is too.
It's Friday. The world is flooded with sunlight. I try to step back into her, but she resists. Maybe later. She's never been successful at (1) compartmentalizing, and (2) calming herself down. I can sense the words coming; she is going to write. I taste the remnants of her troubling dreams--something about cats and dead children, family and love.
Fresh and ready to face the world, she walks out.
I pull out a chair and sit down. The heavy marble table is between us. I watch her, expecting her to fall asleep again. She slept late. She doesn't fall asleep again, though her head is on top of the fat pillow still.
An hour later, she wakes up and gets off on her side of the bed--the one facing the giant mirrored aparador. She sees herself. I think it's at this point she realizes I'm outside her. Not exactly where I am (at the marble table, being patient and observant and reflective) but that something's off, and I am outside.
She's upset that it's Friday. I am endlessly amused by this. Well, I know she isn't upset that it's Friday per se, but that the excitement for the weekend has drained away a little bit. The upsetness courses through me. And then the anger.
This is why I'm glad I'm outside; maybe my outsideness will lessen the force of it. I see the anger come from different places. I'm angry at how easily her confidence is undermined. Angry at how one moment splits into ten billion.
I realize I've heard this story before. Two nights ago, when an old friend was talking about the multiverse and how in some alternate world, there would be a she and him. Toys and magic, umbrellas and raincoats and turtles. I remembered how sober she was; that all things were ground so firmly in the past. Accessible but immovable. A painting done and dried.
That's how all pasts are, for all people, right? It makes sense to the mind. I laugh. Around the table, I turn. And then the anger flickers, a little weaker this time.
She gets dressed and I move out of the way as she fumbles for her keys and journal and fountain pen. It's Friday. A phrase floats in the air, from two nights ago: You gave all you had to give. So what is the difference, now? When do you not? I am amused, still, as I follow her into the hallway, towards the elevators. There are certain things she wants, but cannot have. There is a time for everything. And so I am angry at the fact that she wants these things, these small reassurances, at this particular time. But I am only angry at her, because she is too.
It's Friday. The world is flooded with sunlight. I try to step back into her, but she resists. Maybe later. She's never been successful at (1) compartmentalizing, and (2) calming herself down. I can sense the words coming; she is going to write. I taste the remnants of her troubling dreams--something about cats and dead children, family and love.
Fresh and ready to face the world, she walks out.
