Monday, December 12, 2005

Walking in, I noticed the lightly astringent smell of slowly rotting thin-skinned backyard oranges. There's a vaguely dotted line between overripe and slightly bad, and the contents of my fruit bowl have taken a turn to the latter. I walked over to the bowl and dipped my face close.
It smelled like 1987, and touching my collarbone I remembered the warmth of stepping on fallen fruit just after being told not to.

My eyes hurt terribly tonight--I've been sleeping poorly again--and so just before I started cooking I took out my contacts. I alternated chopping and stirring with pushing my heavy black glasses back up my nose, and when I leaned over a bubbling pot the steam coated my lenses.
And that was just like 1995, when two small boys were my recurring dinner guests, and all four food groups were largely represented (although not always in their most appetizing forms).

Some nights the fog is enough to reflect the city's lights back on it, and on those nights when I turn out all of my own lamps my apartment glows softly amber.

No comments: