living room

the philosopher

I’d been lying on the philosopher’s bed for hours each day inspecting the walls and ceiling of the living room. The bed, pillows, and spare items of clothing scattered themselves across the floor, on the bookshelves, and under the desk. Gravity pulled all of the items into the single room. All of the shit populated in the living room. All of the shit was pulled inward. Like entropy, all of the shit grinding together. Sweat dripped down my neck from the friction.

We had moved the bed into the living room a few weeks ago to take advantage of the only A/C unit in the apartment. Six days ago the philosopher flew out west for a wedding. I haven’t turned on the unit.

Confinement to this tiny room alone affected the imagination. The room changed very little as it accumulated new discarded items, producing the feeling that the world outside of the room’s walls could contain anything. I chose to believe outside is Chicago or New York City instead of the shitty small town from which all of my loved ones have already fled.

Each time I lie on my back, I spread my legs then close them to watch my stomach wiggle. I’ve been eating one to two meals a day. First, in New York, it was a matter of money. Now, I am still unemployed and broke, but I also lack motivation or hunger. I do not eat because the idea of eating, like so many activities, does not seem worth the energy required. I am not satisfied. I am not unsatisfied, and staring at my stomach sprawled across the bed almost makes me content.

I have a beer for dinner. The empty fridge offers little else. I flop onto the bed and begin to feel tipsy. The philosopher sends me pictures from the wedding, but no message. I have another beer, this time one that the philosopher had bought. I text him.

i cant do this
what? cant do what?
live with you be with you

The philosopher flies back tonight, and I had offered to pick him up from the airport. He has my curling iron in his checked bag from New York, so I’ll keep to the agreement.


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