He woke and felt the drool spot on his pillow. He flipped it but saw an identical spot, and realized he must have already done this in the night. So he turned the pillow so the opening faced left, which he really hated to do. His mouth was parched and his throat was sticking together, but his glass of water was far too far away, and he could not bring himself to reach. And looking at it, without a straw, even if he was able to bring it to his lips it seemed too big a feat to drink it.
His roommate, Jack, was getting ready for work, he could hear him, those hard-soled shoes, that business outfit. Those shoes taking steps with purpose, with a plan. Walking back and forth and all around he wanted to yell out at Jack but knew that it wasn't warranted and, also, the dryness. But he wanted to say to him, Hey, pipe down, I'm sleeping. But if the two of them could go out on the town and drink the same amount in the same places, and one of them with somewhere to be, then he really didn't have the right. But he wanted the right.
His legs were tangled and his sheets were awry. He was pretty certain that the bottom tag was up by his face, and he regretted not turning on the fan last night. Not that he was in a particularly good state at 4:45 when he shuffled his feet from the drool-spotted couch to the bed. He was a warm, dry, crumpled mess, his head hurt vaguely, and all he had to do was get up. The simplest of things, the hardest of mornings.
There was nothing in the refrigerator. There was a half-eaten burrito on the counter (he had gotten it there somehow). There wasn't enough coffee in the bag or enough money in his wallet to buy a cup. There were nondescript aches and pains from a youth slipping away. There was mud on his bedroom rug.
Looking out at the sunlight, the trees, and the shapes they made together, he couldn't think of a single thing to do with his day. It was hot outside and cold inside and he couldn't get quite right. He made his egg sandwich, he read up on news, he did all of this in his pajamas. As the hours ticked away and the TV shows passed from one to another, he thought about what he would tell Jack. When Jack got back he would ask him how his day was, and he would have to tell him something. Screens flashed before him and they told him nothing. Books stared blankly and still there was no coffee.
He got into the shower. Jack would be home soon. He thought about what he could say, but each lie sounded exactly like that—a lie. But he couldn't tell him the truth. Could he?
Shampoo slid into his eyes. He rubbed conditioner on his face, forgetting what it was. His eyes and face felt wrong. Things were in the wrong place. Everything was in the wrong place. And sometime, soon, he thought, he would have to set them right.
A key slid in, the front door opened, and he heard a good shoe on a hard floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment