One laptop, Apple, on my lap. One water bottle, blue. One lamp, next to a pair of blue skull candy headphones (that often short-out) on a table. Two decorative pitchers, new, that were made to look old. They sit next to my fireplace–which has actually never housed a fire. I don’t use them to carry water, or to put out flames that never exist. This whole fireplace is a sham.
A basket of books containing: Chuck Klosterman’s A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas, Craig Thompson’s Habibi, and several ski magazines that I never thumb through. I’m already getting bored of myself. Everything is too tidy. Everything is in its perfect spot. It’s very pretty in here. Too pretty. Two green leather chairs with flower pillows. They are very uncomfortable to sit in. Only new guests sit in them. They look great under the window, but they are so uncomfortable. Two tables from Italy. One chess set from Pakistan. I haven’t visited either place. I am a fraud.
Air. Silence– interrupted by raindrops. Your absence is somewhere here too. Dust hidden below the chairs, and a flat screen tv. Curtains, open.
Three bowls from Santa Fe. I actually have been there. One coffee table made from an old Catholic church door. I have a lot of decorative things that say, “I’m materialistic in an environmentally friendly way.” One large and comfy sofa that I usually fall asleep on. It’s easier to sleep there instead of my bed some nights. Rain still outside my windows. My favorite old orange sweatshirt that I’m wearing. One hole in the sleeve that keeps getting bigger. I wonder if I’ll ever sew it.
In the kitchen: A teapot, given to me. Everything here has been given to me. Converse shoes by the door– not mine. Jackets, a basket with keys, and a one dollar bill, one pair of gloves. Two pair of sunglasses. It’s cloudy outside.
