The furniture giant feels like home only until it doesn't, only until its safe reprieve becomes a tangle of puzzle pieces not fitting according to instruction, with parts missing, with arguments built into the tapestry of its design, I stood in a corner of the closet organizing section trying to dispense with tears in a way that would give rise to no questions. In New York they let you cry on the subway without so much as a second glance, in the subway you are buffered by a quiet comfort, but underneath the glaring lights and white walls of inexpensive home goods I was unsure of the rules, unsure if I would be be left alone in the aisles of pillows as I contemplated self-worth against the price point at which I would permit purchases of duck down. Am I worth $24.99? $87?
I walked out with neither, so you do the math.
They say no couple comes into IKEA without a fight in their future, say the confined corridors create conflict, but I never recognized my own skin in those descriptions, knew only joy. It turns out sometimes when they say things, it comes out garbled, a riddle. It turns out when you fight in IKEA it is only with yourself.
And she is a significant other
you have yet to figure out how to
leave behind.
No comments:
Post a Comment