There are people in my home. Someone is banging on the front door. They want to come in as well, but there are too many other people, stepping on each other and sliding past each other sideways. The crack in the ceiling, the light about the door, the airflow concern, all patched up by an array of workers who hope to get in and out as quickly as possible. Javier wanted a cola and I didn’t have any. What kind of home doesn’t have cola? Mine.
It’s cruel how all I want to do is sleep. Here they are, buzzing around me, banging and clattering, and all I want to do is lay on my couch face down. The dog is unnerved, whining and barking. They call him “killer” and “guard dog”. You would think they would know how to make better small talk since they are in other people’s homes so often.I don’t blame them, they aren’t wordsmiths, they are dry-wallers and door framers. We speak other languages. We respect each other.
It’s Halloween soon. I’m 24. I don’t care. I’m dressing up like someone from the suburbs who wears a track suit to the mailbox and has the car washed every Saturday morning.
