All along the long streets of this city, I pretend I am walking to work. I pretend I am walking home. I pretend I am walking to the shops. I pretend I am all academic sitting here on the steps of the library, pile of books beside me.
What I’m actually doing, even when I’m bathing, even when I’m sitting here on the toilet, even when I’m taking the trash can out and putting it neatly next to all the other trash cans that the neighbors left here so carefully, even when I am trying to clean up dust in the hard to reach places of my car, even when I’m folding sheets and shoving too much laundry into the washer, even when I am clipping my nails in the dead quiet not-yet-morning air of midnight…
What I’m actually doing, even when the man who crept into the lady’s apartment in the Netflix episode I am watching is pulling out a knife so he can steal an orange from the bowl on her countertop and slice it neatly into pieces that he can rip away from the peel with his teeth and soak his chin with juices that aren’t his while she walks around naked upstairs unaware of his presence…
What I’m actually doing, even when I’m laughing with friends at the funniest joke I have ever heard…
What I’m actually doing, even when I’m crying about the neighbor who died alone in his apartment…
Is wanting someone to be there to witness these things. Is looking at face after face, wondering if she is the one.
Is thinking of the ones I’ve met, the ones I’ve held and let go, the ones I once thought were forevers, the ones I still haven’t met…
And wondering, if you are hiding somewhere in that milieu.
Photo by Taryn Elliott from Pexels
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