The vast expanses of another weekend have been traversed. A slow, lolling Sunday evening drifts close by on the horizon. I seem to have spent much of it sleeping, uncharacteristically. The front of my hair curls perfectly when I let it dry untouched, and I have nowhere to go. My body feels happiest nestled in the quiet walls of my apartment. But not alone. I cannot bare myself alone.
Friday night and, over long, Italian pints, Shivana showed me snapshots of her Caribbean hometown and pined over the torments of her unrequited love. Green tufts and arching palms, pale blue sky, and his tall, long figure bending over the pool table across the room. Her pretty eyes sparkling like obsidian rocks. Her dark skin smooth and clear, striking against a white, oversized man’s shirt.
I’ve spent the day dipping in and out of Paul Beatty’s winning novel. Each loaded sentence heavy with history, pressing against its fixed boundaries, exploding across the starch white pages. Ink blots widening into rippling pools, appearing bottomless. I want to roast a chicken again, like last Sunday. But I’ll probably just end up making sausages with some mashed potato instead.