She had lost an hour overnight.
This is something she won’t know for a while, and it seems like the kind of thing she wouldn’t necessarily need to know, but it is. It is because it will help her to understand her inexplicable feeling of having lost something.
It’s a challenge because she, like so many others, forgot to take inventory of everything she owns before she went to sleep: This was a silly mistake, a fluke, as she would soon find out.
She felt like something was missing.
She had lost an hour overnight.
5:49 (6:49)
She woke up when everything was still dark, because of the snoring.
She couldn’t stand the snoring, even though she had her own little way of snoring sometimes, breathing audibly through her nostrils, like soft rustling of leaves. But this was something else: elephants and xylophones come to mind.
She regrets not buying earplugs, she knew this would happen, she even THOUGHT about buying them and then never did. Lost track of time.
Forgot.
6:23 (7:23)
She took her sleep-mask off and instantly forgot where she was.
The fireplace burned throughout the night, so the room was stifling and sweat had pooled on her forehead, armpits and belly.
First she thought she might be in Belize: she imagined every inch of the carpet covered in tarantulas. Then she thought briefly of that one boy’s house, Tyler or what’shisname, and how awful that was. Then she saw the human mounds surrounding her, including the one that snored and all the other ones, and her shoulders fell.
This all happened in a matter of cute seconds, before she could even open her mouth to let in a yawn.
7:37 (8:37)
The whole house woke up feeling like something was missing.
Potato pancakes. Oatmeal, with almonds. They feasted like kings and queens of morning. So much coffee, when they ran out of cream they just added more sugar. She would have had coffee if only she had remembered that there was a de-caffeinated option, she feared caffeine.
8:12 (9:12)
Caffeine isn’t all she fears.
She fears being written about, and with good reason. She has to deal with herself enough, and who wants to deal with more versions of yourself? More hollow, less resonant versions, mere reflections? She is forever mindful of her character. She exhibits constant good judgment, and laughs like the stars. But still she is careful, and chooses her words carefully around those with pencils
if she even chooses them at all.
9:36 (10:36)
They sat in a circle and shared their dreams.
In turns they played Freud and tried to figure out what all of it means.
10:18 (11:18)
Slowly they began to pack up their things:
They rolled all the blankets up and stuffed them in the depths of the closet.
They put the couch cushions back where they belonged, stuffy and upright.
They drew the blinds, letting the sun shine on their infinite mess.
They wrung out paper towels and painted the counters with water.
They flipped the switch and let the trash compactor bellow and moan.
They took turns washing dishes; exemplary distribution of labor.
They forced down cold coffee as if they were swallowing the sea.
They solved the great mystery of Whose Sock is Whose?
They walked barefoot outside with the recycling in their hands.
They checked to make sure they had all their phone chargers.
They kissed each other’s noses and said they’d never forget one another.
They called each other kittens, besties, family.
Then they slipped out the door, one by one, throwing their arms up in the air and squealing each other’s names.
Then climbed into their cars and pulled away.
Still no one had figured out that they had lost an hour overnight.
11:11 (12:11)
She drove on 94 until she finally got home.
Then slipped inside the backdoor while Mom didn’t notice a thing, she was downstairs painstakingly folding laundry. Her dad was in the garage putting a shiny new chain on all the bikes they never use. Her little sister was still asleep, balled up in powder blue sheets, mouth ajar and dribbling.
She opened the door to her room and threw her bag on the floor. The dust and debris of potato chips rippled outwards. She changed back into her sweatpants and sweatshirt and collapsed into her bed, replaying the evening. She looked around at the room, which was once my room, my haven and hangout and now it belonged to her, she whom I wish I knew.
But all I’m left with are my own words.
I know, though, that she felt young, and glad, and looking around her room,
I wonder if she wonders if I once felt the same way.
Then she closed her eyes, and went looking for the hour she was missing.
No comments:
Post a Comment