Expectant Eyes

My mouth feels heavy and too wet somehow. The taste of the moment tumbles around my mouth, thick, unnamable, definitely unpleasant. The show Gidget is playing in the distance. Terrible show really. Horrible lessons, a certain blend of offensively sexist and earnest that only 60s sitcoms can manage. Everything here is outdated. Outdated and broken.

I can tell someone is talking to me because they're looking at me expectantly. It's so fucking obnoxious the way people look at you when they're expecting something; hopeful and kind pushed to the front of glazed eyeballs that are counting down the minutes until they can leave.

They can leave. I can't.

I look away and drink some water. If it's important they'll persist. I like it better this way. So much less tedious, mind numbing, soul-sucking, pointless, never ending chit chat. Chit chat and tasks. Tasks and chit chat. Nothing and chit chat. How many variations are there, truly, to comment on the weather? Every day, same thing, dozens and dozens of exchanges around me about humdrum observations. Everyone talking about the fucking weather, never really saying anything, until they either forget I'm here or write off my presence.

As far as days go, today's alright. I've had meals. I'm sitting. It's a pleasantish temperature in here. These are my days. Rather these are my good days.

" FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING IDIOT. ILL FUCKING KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T LET -- GET OUT OF MY WAY."

Well, it was a good day. One of my housemates is, apparently, not having a good day. The air thickens. I hate that, the way tension is like cornstarch to water, making it thick and sticky. People secure their cell phones, women secure their hair and the chittering small talk picks back up more lilting now with an urgent rhythm underneath. Ba dum- ba-dum-ba-dum-badumbadumbadum. I look away again. It's not so loud when I retreat. I can still hear my housemate, less loud, though still disgruntled in the other room. I hope things don't continue to thicken. I like the air when it's thinner and today I'm almost enjoying the sitting.

I'm being touched. God damn it I'm being touched. I hate being fucking touched. Everything is loud. My clothes are taunting my skin, rushed whispers of twisted fabric encompass me and I'm still being touched. So many hands. Too many hands. I try to look at them but they're behind me but also on me, moving me upstairs.

Oh. I have to go upstairs.

I wonder if I missed the request to move. The thread of meaning in a tapestry of mundane noise is such a hassle to parse out when it so rarely pertains to me. I'm in my room. The hands are off. The door is closed. I am alone.

Apparently my housemate is not having a good day. I'm always removed when their days are bad. I think for my safety, but, really, it's for theirs -- they need more hands to manage the situation. Too many cooks in the kitchen does not apply on bad days. Can't have too many hands on bad days.

My body is still on fire with sensation. The air is better in here but I can feel the thick air from outside my room oozing through the door seams. Suddenly my lungs feel too tight and too small for my body. I yell. Something releases and the thousands knots the tension tied begin to loosen, just a little, so I yell again. I yell and yell until the thick air begins to recede.

I look out the window of my bedroom and see a bird; an owl. It's night time.

The air is thinner now, the chatting is lighter and less, the house feels like the world looks after a summer storm; more vibrant, deliciously exhausted, and relieved, almost celebratory, returning warriors from successful battle. Somewhere else in the house I feel expectation eyes looking my direction. I ignore them.

I stare at the owl. I think maybe it's a barn owl.

I guess today was okay. I sit on my bed and wait for bedtime medication and watch the owl.