Hearts and Hemorrhoids (Part 1)
A sky of pessimism overtook her land and reign soaked the grass and trees and dirt where long moments of time absorbed loneliness and abuse. Most nights she’d lay alone with inked words, hallucinating honesty and humility, until drowse usurped the cruelty and she could be free from the moon that laughed until it was new. Other nights the liquid courage evaporated into unremembered visions.
Staring at the stalactite, white ceiling she couldn’t help thinking who he might be, where he might work, what his parents were like and if they were still living, whether he had siblings, and what the point of getting stuck in these dreams was because thoughts are never fully real. She pushed the book off the bed waiting in the moment of silent anticipation when her senses couldn’t tell her anything but she was sure of the coming sound. It meant there are still laws to obey.
She rose the next morning feeling oddly right, maybe a blooming temperament that would not be burned in the brush. She sat down on the toilet and grabbed the toothbrush and toothpaste while the water escaped her, beginning to brush as she finished.
Her frothing mouth clamped down on the brush as she tore squares of paper and folded them onto one another to absorb the excess gilt. Her thighs flexed to stand her up as she began to brush again, looking back at the porcelain contrast to see what level of hydration was necessary this morning, the drains swallowing anything she gave them. After a brief look in the mirror she pulled it towards herself to expose the inner cabinet and considered the organization of pills, lotions, ointments, powders and bandages, moving a few items around so that the order came in color and not utility. She checked all the expiration dates even though she had gone through the habit not two weeks ago; the magnet pulled the door shut and left a moment of you and me.
Leaving the bathroom door closed she walked into the kitchen and began emptying the dishwasher from the night before, opening all the cabinets and drawers so that the process would not be repeated, then ran across the room pushing each closed when the dishwasher was empty. A grinder and coffee were waiting on one of the counters, the smell of the fresh grounds gathering inside her nose to indicate another day of habit. Variety in body and acidity only, as the boiling water streamed through the brown dust and into her cup.
She sat down at the kitchen table that was pushed against the wall opposite the refrigerator and sink, and reached for a small, square, yellow paper to draw meaningful shapes that she would periodically cross out throughout the day. The list seemed repetitious. The shapes seemed repetitious. She stuffed the note in her pocket and washed the coffee cup and dried it with a towel, placing it back into the cupboard where the water lines from previous inadequacies left rings. She scratched at the ring to see if the stain would release but it was ingrained from redundant placement or left over moisture or insufficient cleaning, the last being considered for a fraction of a second and quickly dismissed.
She checked the time; she always gave herself too much time. Walking into the bedroom she pulled the shirt she was wearing over her head and folded it neatly back into the closet. She stretched the band of her shorts so they would open larger than her hips and let them fall to the ground over her feet. Taking one foot out of the shackles she used the other to pick them up and folded them on top of the shirt. The less she wore the more she climbed into the closet, the windows themselves being gawkers and voyeurs and peepers. She grabbed the top of the prepared pile of clothing and started getting dressed. The phone began to ring as she gently snapped the laced waistband, so she stepped toward it and answered it.
Hello.
Hey, do you think you’d be able to come in a bit earlier? We could really use you to catch up on a few things?
Sure.
Thanks. See you in a bit.
Alright. Bye.
She did her best not to sound excited following the question but probably didn’t succeed. Serendipity. She sat down to place her toes into the folded, yellow bunches that uncoiled to the middle of her shin, and placed each foot into a brown, leather boot that nearly met the knee. Her vermillion dress fell above the knees and rediscovered those curves each time she slipped it on.
The boots clicked along the floor as she gathered miscellaneous purse items: money, mints, moisturizers, mascara. She grabbed her keys and tugged the open door as she walked through the doorway. A step ahead; between sounds.
Days with a climactic peace were her favorite because she could walk to work and interact with the many locals that gave her a reason to inhabit the neighborhood, waving and smiling to each of them as some genuinely remembered and some sharked salary. Her gait was upright and fitting of a taller woman that stepped sex, the type it’s fun to watch stumble and fall, but today she was gliding from heal to toe. People noticed her, too. She felt it. It usually made her hesitate or stammer but today she bathed in it and the distant sol shine.
Her steps clacked echoes into the office, something she could listen to with pleasure throughout the day, even accepting tedious tasks just to leave her desk and float between phonic footprints. Like all days when it feels that the stars are aligning there must be a dark patch, the fantasizer’s return-to-reality-kick-in-the-teeth, and to abide, just like rise and set, the sun became swarmed with smog as it dimmed for a drizzle. Surprised she was to be without worry or anxiety or nervousness inside, it was as if she had learned the art of an escapist, looking back on the foolishness that became more and more distant, further in farther it went.
Droll scoffed each once thought. Each one that accepted her heart with stipulations. Each one that saw themselves worthwhile and humble. The stretch of her mouth grew with every condensated memory. It was always met with such turmoil and ridicule and blame, as if she ever had a choice; the serenity nervous about its calmness. As the storm grew so too the equity and harmony. The more violent the storm, the greater she fruited. It wasn’t me, it was them. It was them.The pissing clouds gave no sign of letting up so she ran through the rain into the earliest available car, the boots darkening into soaked shades of sonic dissonance.