The exterminator says he'll come back. Monday, 7 am. Clear out everything. I spend my mornings scouring the tiles, throwing gargantuan insects out the window, what is a life in New York if not an unending eyeroll at the great joke at our expense. I sit in the car for an hour and a half sweating, block after block of drivers in cars, running out the clock, staring into eternity. Time is only an illusion until it shows up on your skin. He buzzes in your periphery but your heart is hardened, there's a to-do list inside your eyelids and you haven't time for dead end streets pulling on your strings.
Tomorrow a new leaf turns.
What that means is entirely up to you.
No comments:
Post a Comment