Ruining My Dinner
She was glad to be alone, at least for the moment. There were rats (rather, what she perceived to be rats) scurrying about the aged rafters above her head. They roof came to a point that was perpendicular with her knee. She had spent most of her day, a day that began at four-thirty in the afternoon, paying attention to the peculiar changes in temperature. The shift - from beneath the covers to not, from upstairs to downstairs, inside and outside - was all too passive. She longed for a shiver to run down her spine or a ball of sweat to linger on her brow, but she was to have nothing to do with the circumstances that might make this come to fruition.
Instead, she focused her attention to the feeble spark that fell from the end of her cigarette. There were ashes now, scattered from her thigh to her exposed heel and the ankle of her pants. It was all that mattered. It was all that had to matter, she told herself as she ran her tongue along the stubborn retainer cemented to the back of her lower front teeth. She hated that thing.
This was not the first time she had found herself in this position. She had no idea as to what to do with herself. Change was on the horizon. While this was ultimately all she had to look forward to in the coming days, it terrified her. It seemed as though it was years upon years ago that she last attempted to make a real change in her life. It had only been eleven months. Her mind was still clogged with the memories, the frustration. The disappointment weighed heaviest, hardly a surprise. A cruel reminder of the true nature (and cost) of gambling.
There were days where all she could hope to do was push past the very sequence of events. It was all a very slippery jigsaw.
How can I possibly stomach anything, how can I begin to oil my jaw. When did this rust appear?
Her lips were dry and unmoving. Her eyes were downcast, she had forgotten how to look up. She was aware of the hump swelling in her back, just beneath the area where her crooned neck and tense shoulder blades met. She had no regard for this. Nor for the black tar that was sliding down the walls of her lungs, pooling. Not so long ago she took note of the maroon trails creeping along the inside of her thighs and the rear of her hips. This seemed to be much more debilitating.
Her legs felt heavy and awkward as drew one leg out from beneath the other and rested her cracked heels onto the floor. The right one didn’t hurt her anymore, but it was ugly. She drifted across the room and ran her hands along the top of the enclosed stairwell. She was very careful not to slip. If she wasn’t careful she would slip. Gone were the days wherein she might be in favour of repeating mistakes. Caution hung around her neck, but never blatantly so. The reckless fires still lingered but were disguised by her bleak and sullen brown iris. Bitter phlegm had made a home in her throat.
She was having a hard time bringing herself to do much of anything. Nothing seemed capable of spurring her on. She knew, however, that she must keep herself occupied lest she sheath herself alongside her comforter once more. The water grew very hot very quickly. She let it scorch the back of her hand for a moment before ramming the stopper into the drain. One by one, she placed the dishes in the now soapy chasm. The interior of which once a mock porcelain, now simply white and cracking.
She thought that perhaps the two small plates that had nestled up quite neatly, and tightly, against each other were mocking her in a way. Aware, however, that objects are too preoccupied serving as their own mirror to bother with teasing a (sad, sad) woman who has cast her own reflection into oblivion. She washed them. She rinsed them. She set them down to try separately. Any joke had died with the final gurgling audible from the pipes that ran for some length beneath the kitchen sink and onward. She was once more faced with the challenge of productivity for anything but its own sake.
There must have been a time in her life wherein things were a little less difficult. How else could she comprehend struggle if she’d never known satisfaction? Each time she tried to wrack her brain, to sift through her indigestibles - she drew a blank. No light before her, no light behind. She clenched her teeth harder.
Here I am squatting. I have tunnel-vision. It’s a terrible plight. You see, I can’t see much. Rather, there are a limited amount of things I can see. Forwards will do me alright, but forwards won‘t do you much good if you can’t figure out what’s coming at your from the right or the left. It’s a condition.
Tell me about it, tell me for the sake of solidarity if you don’t care about anything else. If you can’t wrap your head around what I mean by it, I’ve got others. Other ailments. Plenty of other ailments. You and I are bound to have something in common.
No, I don’t see myself getting any better anytime soon. It’s a condition. It’s the longest I’ve ever been involved with anything. I don’t generally stick to things. It’s a way for me to commit to something without ever tying myself down. Anywhere I go, it goes. I ain’t tethered to it, it just slips right into my pocket and I don’t even need to tell anyone I got it. But I’m telling you and that’s something. Now tell me about it.
I could sleep for days, but surely I could linger in the rain for longer.
