Entry #2 or The Wooden Spoons

There is this book I have never finished. Every few months, I wander into this particular bookshop in search of this particular book.

The bookshop has high ceilings and carpeted floors. It's air-conditioned, and every wall is lined with books carrying that new-book smell. Just perfect. Two armchairs sit side by side next to the English Lit. section, and I drop my bag on one of them as I search for that particular book.

The book in question is made up of short stories, one to three pages long, each with a clear beginning and closed end. Sometimes I read one, two, three, four. Sometimes I read none; just look at the titles. I snuggle into this generic plasticky black leather chair and crack the book open.

When I'm done, entertained and inspired, I leave. I don't buy the book. And I forget about it for a while. The whole thing feels like a love affair: sneakily coming into the bookshop, praying the book hasn't been sold, and consuming its stories like they're my fix. Also, it's way too expensive. So I put it back on the shelf.

I'm telling you all this because this is one of the books that made me love short stories. You can say what you need to say and don't bother people too much. You put it out and get on with your day. So I'm going to do that now.

/

I moved in with my flatmate last January. I found the place through a reposted Instagram Story of someone I've never met. I visited the place and quietly fell in love with it. We agreed on the terms, and I moved in.

I was happy! I still am. I had my corner, my clothes, my jewels, my pillows and books, my diary, my pills, my huge TV and my yoga block. Basically, the essentials. I also had good spirits, hope and a smile.

My flatmate is pretty nice. She is kind, very tall and goes to her piano lessons every Tuesday. She is also cool, stylish, has many plants and loves salads with feta cheese and avocado bits. And sometimes ketamine too. She listens to me blah blah blah. I listen to her, but a bit less. I do talk a lot. I talk more than anyone I know.

It's her house. When I moved in, it was already all furnished and very well decorated. In fact, sometimes when I have friends over I take credit for her vision. I don't think she would mind that so much anyways.

In the bathroom, she left a little basket for me to store my toiletries. She also left me a space on the shelf and a glass to hold my toothbrush and toothpaste. It came with a toilet, those chic ones with the flush installed inside the wall. A white basin and a matching shower with a glass wall that we have to squeegee every time we use it so that we avoid building up those annoying white water stains.

We were blessed by the gods with a lovely, sunny, spacious terrace looking onto the tree-filled square! AH! She had furnished it with a table, two wooden benches, a rosemary bush and another plant that I do not know the name of. The terrace led into the living room, which had one bedroom on each side of it. Hers on the right, and mine on the left. The living room had a big cosy mauve green couch, three ceiling windows, plenty of light, and a dinner table with four mismatched chairs my cool stylish flatmate thrifted (of course!).

The kitchen had everything except a microwave, though that's fine because I do not care for microwaves. All the cutlery was there, colourful Moroccan plates, these mini cute blue and white bowls and standard IKEA tall glasses. She kept a light green jumbo mug just for herself. This mug was my biggest enemy for a while; I feared for it, for its life! I'm sure if I do end up breaking it some day, she will kill me first, and tell me to move out second. Please knock on wood for me reader.

And then, she had these three wooden spoons.

Did you know that wooden spoons canNOT go into the dishwasher?

It was March. I had been living there for three months. And for three months I had been putting those goddamn wooden spoons in the dishwasher. Carelessly...recklessly. So one night, after dinner, as we tidied up the kitchen together, my flatmate turned to me casually, nonchalantly:

"Hmmm, I've been meaning to tell you-"

Nerves, cold sweat down my back, heart beating out of my chest. What the hell did I do?

"-these wooden spoons are cherry wood; they're meant to be washed by hand. And actually, from time to time, we have to oil them to preserve the wood."

That is the day I realized I was a rat. There is absolutely no difference between me and a common street rat. I eat where I shit and I shit where I eat. I scavenge for food in the sewers, in the rubbish-filled corners of alleyways, in the darkness of the deep wet garbage bins that sit in front of the bus stop next to the building. I slither around dragging my slimy tail through this beautiful house, brush my whiskers every night as I watch dust bunnies grow and fly around with the breeze that comes through the living room's three ceiling windows, in the cold of the night. I have never read a book. In fact, I barely know how to speak human words, much less read. Because if I'm not a rat, why haven't I acquired the simple human knowledge that some wooden spoons need to be taken care of? Why have I been this careless?

"So you can't wash them in the dishwasher. You didn't know and I forgot to tell you. It's okay though. Let's just not do that anymore. Do you want some tea?"

My flatmate let a street rat live with her. Because only a dirty rat would do something as dumb as this. She let me in her space; she let me use her stuff; and I have been nothing but a burden this whole time.

"I am so sorry, I had no idea. This is horrible! I can buy you new ones if you want." As a rat, I can only try to cleanse this space from the plagued touch of my tiny rat fingers. I am a rat, but I want to be better. A mouse?

"No, it's totally okay. I forgot to tell you." she chuckled "No worries."

But I still worry today. I never used any of those three wooden spoons ever again. I love where I live and my flatmate, well, she's a doll. I need to make sure she never finds out I'm a rat.