what isn't ours
I wake up to a bottle of red nail polish and an almost empty bottle of rose perfume beside me. I have lost count of all of the moments and memories that bottle carries, held inside by a gold cap. And how many memories we were going to make with those moments. The cold shower is the first sign of summer, and the prosecco starts to make me dizzy.
It’s the smell of sunscreen that overpowers the smell of yesterday’s cigarettes, and I wonder if we made a mistake by opening the windows. I think of you and the apartment and the rain on that Sunday afternoon, and how our best decisions never come from thinking.
“But what would you want more of?”
He looks at his glass, and then looks at me.
“Time.”
I’m sitting in a restaurant lined with wooden beams, the table rocks back and forth every time I reach for my glass.
And I wonder how long this has been waiting for me, or if I had to wait for myself.
It’s not even August but I am tired of falling in love.
The old man drinks his beer and reads his novel, and I have a feeling he did not let himself become hardened by the world around him. I, on the other hand, am aware of every movement I make, as not to draw too much attention to the blonde in a black dress who is always eating alone.
The girls in floral dresses and wide brimmed hats ask me to take a picture of them in front of the jasmine that sprawls on the terracotta behind us. I take this role very seriously, as I know the power of a good picture. They ask to take mine and I say no - how does one explain that their aesthetic is reserved for reflections in old mirrors.
My nonno used to tell me: “We are not for sale.” Did I ever understand what prompted him to give this advice to a 7 year old? No, but now I do.
I have no service in this bar, and I do not feel inclined to tell everyone I used to love that I changed my number. There was a time where I cared a lot, and I cared too much, but I cared about the wrong things.
He tells me it isn’t his job to help me find a home. So I spend Sunday in prayer, asking to be sent angels in the form of strangers.
On Monday, I wrote down that there is hope. And on Tuesday, I wrote down that there is faith. And on Wednesday, I asked “how did I get here?”
Time. He tells me it’s the most important thing in the world. And I know this, but I won’t let him know that he is right.
We are sitting side by side. “Creativity. Health.” I start listing off words in an attempt to prove something, but I am not exactly sure what I am trying to prove.
“But you need time to observe. You need time to watch. You need time to think. You need time to do what you do.”
I reach for my glass but it is empty.
How much time does it take for a place to feel like home? Is there an amount of required time to call some place yours? And can we even call it ours if it doesn’t belong to us?
I hang the silk on the back of my bedroom door and climb into bed alone.
I’m starting to believe in something.