You snuck into the kitchen at 4:00am on a Tuesday morning. The ceiling fan was on that night. I remember because we couldn’t afford to run the air conditioner. I felt the bed shift its weight and I slightly rolled as gravity pulled me into the vacancy of your previous position. I was awakened by the squeaking of the old pantry doors folding crookedly onto their hinges and the quiet pull and pushed roll of the utensil drawer as you went for the can opener. I lay in the same spot I fell unto, ears perked like a hound. I cocked my head and just listened as I heard the same can opener grip and pierce its teeth in and crack the mouth of a tin can of pineapple. You continued, almost strategically quiet; slowly and circularly sawing its top open. Pushing and rounding back to the beginning of the original puncture, its horizontal edges became outweighed by the wake of pineapple juice submerging the dogtooth grooved sliver of tin beneath the dense cubes of this sugared golden fruit. As if a vertical bow to a Titanic-like scenario. A mid morning snack. I stared at the black ceiling as my eyes acclimated to the dark and I was eventually able to make out familiar possessions we had acquired from birthday gifts and thrift store raids. I swept and balled the satin sheets into my fists in the place your hips would lay. I listened to the soft slop of the can’s condensed consistency plop into a porcelain bowl. I continued to lay in your spot on the bed. Waiting for you to finish and come back. You gently left your bowl in the stainless steel sink with a soft shuttered echo. I lay still waiting for you to return. I heard more creaks in the hallway. I heard a fumble for the remote as the static of the fleece blanket rubbed against your skin. I saw blue under the crevasse of the bedroom door as more static of a late night infomercial snapped on. I heard everything. I suppose I should just go to sleep.
Joshua Tool – 01/24/13