witty-remark's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - Books collect like dust in the corners of my apartment. I think back to when I bought it—“I can kill myself in peace” was the reassuring thought I rewarded myself with. The first time I was handed the keys, and the door shut behind me, the footsteps of my realtor growing fainter, I pictured myself hanging from the rafters of the ceiling. “Nine foot high ceilings” my realtor promised me.I decorated the place white and clinical. My apartment identical to the spread inside interior design magazines lauding the return of mid-century design. “Your place needs to be on Apartment Therapy!” friends exclaimed. I thought it would be funny to see my feet grazing the top of my grey tufted couch, with a bright splatter abstract painting in the backdrop. I hated how the cushions of the couch would pucker if you stepped on them—like when I needed to readjust the slant of the abstract painting. “Shouldn’t hang myself,” I thought. “Who would smooth over the cushions afterwards?” Besides, I struggled to hang a chandelier on what seemed like impossibly high ceilings now. I wrapped the silver coiled chain around the red glass beads and threw the chandelier into the dumpster. It had unscrewed itself from the ceiling, landing on my bed in a crash of glass and drywall. How could the ceiling possibly support me? Under the ceiling, on a wooden table lay a small spiral stack of books. The newest ones in my collection courtesy of my ex’s best friend. On loan. One is so well preserved, I picture myself in latex gloves, carefully turning the pages with tweezers to keep them unmarked and virginal. Just rough hands gliding over the silk negligee—no funny business underneath. “I’m careful who I lend my books out to,” I say, leaning in the doorway as he gets ready to leave my party. “Me too,” he nods in agreement. He comes over to watch scary movies and we always fall asleep after starting the second one. He used to be an alcoholic and sleep on my floors. A week later he hands me the books “we talked about.” I don’t remember the conversation. I swim through a vodka laced memory, but only remember looking at his salt and pepper hair. I don’t think I like him—in fact, sometimes I’m disgusted by him. But laying on my grey tufted couch, peering down at his salt and pepper hair, I think I like to think I like him. 2:53 a.m. - Monday, Nov. 07, 2016 |
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