A cinnamon roll for breakfast.
Clean bed linens smoothed just so over the mattress and sprayed with lavender and chamomile enriched oils. Pillows, goose down, fluffed and re-centered over the rectangle of the mattress.
Today I suppose, before I start on the task of cleaning the bathroom and kitchen and vacuuming the rug in our living room and the dark blue velvet sectional that aligns itself before our large, flat screen television set, I will wander off to the market to buy a pint of Italian sweet cream to put in my coffee. I suppose I’ll buy some more frozen Indian TV dinners (Butter Chicken, Chicken Tikka Masala) and a pack of Robin’s Egg blue cigarettes to indulge in.
I’ll bathe and go to the meeting at sunset near Lake Ida, but closer to the iron hem of the train tracks that buckle one town to the other.
In between, I’ll read my new book (Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders) and miss my mother so tenderly the eternal infantile part of my heart will cry out for her.
I wonder if anyone will take care of me like how I take care of everyone else. I noticed my roommate’s leg hairs, freshly shaven, stipple the basin of the tub and the tile floor of our kitchen is dirty with spots she neglected to clean up. So I suppose it’s upon me to do that chore. She leaves the sink dirty and the range is always greasy from the residue of the meals she prepares. I clean it up with a silent coal of resentment burning in my soul. I was raised it’s a common courtesy to clean up after yourself and cannot fathom how this lesson has not reached her.
Someone left their clothes in the communal dryer this morning. I resentfully emptied them out and placed them in a bag while placing my damp linens into the dryer.
I like the balmy morning air here, the way the rain dries on the asphalt and the fronds of the palm trees glisten beneath the clementine of the skies as the cerulean seeps in between the sunrise gossamer of the clouds.
I’ve become strangely less resistant of my fate here.
Nightingale 
Leave a comment