INTERIORS

I

Interiors: Cup of tea

Even though they are natural companions, my hands always seem so lonely compared to other pairs. Solitude has always plagued me; it numbs my bones and ceases futures.

Knuckles turn ivory when I grip the mug as if desperately yearning for it to dissolve into my body. The warmth of the fragrant water made an impact with my trembling hands where both found a temporary home in each other. The smoke billowed from the inside reminding me of ghosts escaping their mausoleums, looking for lost lovers and vengeance.

The scorching liquid hits my chapped lips but I quickly force it down where the heat travels all throughout my body missing my hands.

I once asked a boy who I was hooking up with if he knew where in his body he felt emotions – where he felt anxiety, where he felt strength, insomnia and where he felt loneliness. He looked at me with a puzzled expression and his eyes shined with indifference; they always betrayed him.

“I feel loneliness in my hands” – I remember muttering knowing I was speaking to closed ears.

He held my hands and told me they weren’t lonely anymore. He didn't understand. My hands have always been lonely and maybe that’s why they always seek refuge elsewhere where they might find entertainment to ignore their solitude. Cigarettes, my phone, a cup of tea are the usual suspects but in this instant it was his calloused hands.

Eventually, as I knew well enough, his hands let mine go and the feeling of remoteness returned.

I swallow the last of the honey flavored tea and I’m forced to put down the mug. As if by instinct, my hands quickly run and clasp together knowing that the loneliness was soon to return. My long fingers trace over the etchings of my palm trying to decipher the code – is the cure for isolation inside of me?

II

Interiors: Jackets on chairs

It’s 11:52pm and the small digital clock mocks my stillness and prompts me to action. My bare feet touch the wooden floor and the skin of my elbows is stuck to the cold glass of my dining room table.

Around me, three chairs clothed with jackets that hang around their curvy frames. To my left, a military jacket adorned with communist pins salutes me with reverence and a slight technique of intimidation.

To my right, a bright pea green coat that is soft to the touch transports me to the eighties as I reach out to touch the surprisingly present shoulder pads that are slightly concealed; it greets me with an annoying laugh and the smack of gum.

In front of me, a brown corduroy blazer whose texture occupies and delights my senses recognizes its simplicity among the other guests. It calmly gives me a head nod while leaning back, taking advantage to scope out the surroundings and perhaps even criticize the messy appearance of my kitchen.

I look around at these three jackets and think of what they’ve been through, what they’ve seen and what their future might look like. As of now, they are my only company on this rainy Sunday night but – where will they be tomorrow once their owners claim them for shelter from the unforgiving wind?

I relish in the restrained energy of the military jacket, in the inviting viridescence of the quirky coat and in the aloofness of the blazer knowing that the present is what is known but tomorrow is undisclosed.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up, get dressed and exit my room to find my now lonely green jacket missing its companions of the night before. I’ll save it from an incessant query, from isolation and instead will force it to escort me through the rain and frigid breeze of an inescapable Monday morning.