novembre

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thirdhand

today i keep forgetting that other things are happening outside in the world, that there are obligations or people who love me. without having pressing things to do, everything slows down and i forget.

i was sifting through old found snapshots, about to tape a group of fifty into the hallway when the doorbell rang.

that's right. someone is coming over to pick up the futon that heather and i procured the night her plane landed. he answered my ad on craigslist and is coming to pick up the haphazard sofa, free to a good home.

velcro sandals worn with socks. plaid shorts. a longbed truck parked in front of the driveway, my neighbors honking.

while running fingers over the dents in the wood frame, he kept remarking about how nicely decorated my apartment was
you an artist?
this place has a funky feel to it. funky. it's interesting. the decor.
and then commenting on how he kept remarking
i keep saying that.
you must think i'm annoying.
you must be saying to yourself "get out of my apartment."
i laughed him off, marvelling at his conversational self-depreciation.

we took apart the futon and maneuvered it down the stairs gently. moving furniture is a subtle intimacy. the angling and the shared muscle-strain.

he asked my name and shook my hand as i closed the door, wondering how many hours the cat would stay hidden this time.

usually he finds solace under the futon, but no more.

12:03 am - 06.26.02

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