our routine.
You were sitting across me, between us were a rug and a bare low wooden table.
“You go first,” you said, imploring.
“Can I recite a poem?” I said.
You took your time responding.
“No, no poem, please.”
Miles rushed by in a matter of anxious seconds, we both blinked repeatedly, blinding ourselves as the room turned wet and dark, blue and cold.
“I’ll bring my instruments then and will get down to work,” I said, “Would that be alright?”
The room no longer seemed to contain us. Emptiness was all enveloping and we were part of the vacuum.
“Can we just sit?” you said.
“I need a break from inaction!” I snapped and added, “Sorry I snapped.”
And all of a sudden we’re sitting back to back on the low table, our naked feet resting on the rug. We’re seeing things from a new perspective, I guess, and it’s a mystery whether it helps.
“I’d love for this room to have a window,” you said.
So, this was our routine. Making do with what we had, denying our context, desperately searching for a new way ahead. Setting ourselves free from it seemed impossible. Acceptance was our strategy, but our resources were running low. Despite our best efforts.
“Say, you tell me of last night,” I said.
I heard you sigh and then, I think, you stood.
At that point the rug, the low table and our seats were gone, we were more than deserted.
You were breathing hard, as if impeded, and droplets of ice cold water rolled down the white-washed wall, an inch away from your face, your forehead touching.
“Okay,” you said.
Then one by one, every muscle in you contracted then relaxed, you were dancing against your will, and you were never a dancer. I registered spasms and uncontrolled jerks — you looked possessed. Finally you dropped to the floor, a heap of disconnected flesh and white skin, with the occasional convoluted ligaments.
“Well, that was last night,” someone whispered.
