Contrast

I'd only been to Moira's apartment a few times, but it was an easy space to feel comfortable in. Intimate, like it was sitting on the chair next to you, leaning slightly towards you, listening, but you get the sense it would be drawn to you as much as you were drawn to it even if you had nothing to say. It was something in the lineament, I was sure. Something so softly irresistible, something you want to touch but you're afraid you'll alter it somehow and that alteration would be a kind of wound, a beginning of debasement.

Swathed in the virginal quietude of the apartment, I hadn't felt the heat. It was to be, perhaps, the first truly hot day of the summer. Past years had seen heat waves sweep the coasts with some people even dying of the heat. It almost seems a recession was due. A few sweltering days were inevitable, though. I stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over the city. Sometimes it didn't feel like Boston. I had had a preconceived notion of Boston as a little provincial or at least collegiate. I think, in my mind, I had compared it unfairly to New York. Boston was still worlds more urban than anything I'd experienced in Ohio. I stretched, rubbed my neck. This kind of height always made me feel a little regal, like the whole city was just a panorama spread out just for me. Like I was addressing the masses.

I was sweating, and I had a headache. The clouds were red in the early sky. They seemed to be glowering at me. How much had I had to drink the night before? It couldn't have been as much as it now felt like it had been. What about Moira? No, nothing could have happened there. She wouldn't have taken advantage of me, and if I couldn't remember then I would have been too far gone to do much but pass out. It was sweet of her to have let me stay with her. I felt bad for sleeping in her bed. I could have very well knocked out on the couch or the floor. It was nice though, a pleasant gesture. It dulled the discomfort of being here and not at home, however short my stay had been in that apartment. It had felt like mine. It represented a group of choices I had made, choices that had been unmade by one, stupid little thing.

I couldn't think about it, and I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe I had miscontstrued last night's meaning. Maybe Moira was just tending to me in my disarray. God knows what it would have been like waking up in our apartment with this sense of being adrift lodged inside me. I hadn't asked for this. God, I hadn't asked for anything but a peaceful life. No. No, don't think about it. You're only spiralling downward. Do something. Get something inside you besides feelings.

I rubbed my stomach. My skin felt warm, maybe a little clammy. I would feel odd being in Moira's apartment feeling like this. I wouldn't want to touch anything. I also didn't know how well food would sit in me, but it's always a process, always something that has to start somewhere. I went back inside, the sky laughing at my retreat. Bending down, I whispered, "Moira." She didn't stir. Her forehead was dotted with perspiration. It didn't belong and I wanted to wipe it away. I wondered vaguely, guiltily, what it would taste like. Rising, a hint of dizziness washed over me. I staggered a bit, but continued on to the kitchen. The floor there was cool, and I shivered. I felt lost.

In our apartment, I had finally started to feel comfortable. We had the microwave, a nice assortment of dishes, a dish rack. I knew where everything was and there were hardly any gaps. When I needed cumin, we had cumin and I knew where it was. I stood in Moira's kitchen for a long moment, not sure what to do. Coffee would be good. But how would I make that? I could go out and get some, but how would I get back in? And where was my shirt? Grunting, I opened the fridge. I squatted down to get a better look. That was a mistake. I decided to remain sitting. It wasn't a full fridge, but better than most belonging to people our age. I immediately caught at the Brita and grabbed it out. I tipped my head back and tried to pour it into my mouth, but I got it all over me. My chin, my chest, my pants. Oh well. Try again later. I placed it on the floor next to me and grabbed for one of the tupperware containers. I peeled back the top and gave it a sniff. My head went reeling. I gagged and tossed it onto the shelf without resealing it. It hadn't smelled particularly bad but had been just a bit mushy for my particular state. Shaking my head like a dog, I pulled out another one. Glutton for punishment and all that. This was more like it. Carrot sticks and broccoli. Oh, and there was the dip. I stumbled up, grasping the water in my other hand. The dining table, I couldn't sit at it, but I placed the water and food there and felt my toes in the carpet. Wonderfully squishy, I scrunched them up and smiled. I closed my eyes and took the water and put its cool exterior against my forehead. Not worth another try yet. A little food, first.

I munched on a carrot and its juices exploded in my mouth. I took a piece of broccoli and scooped up some dip. I brought it to my face. It didn't look or smell all that appetizing. But I wasn't going to waste it just for a little squeamishness. I put it in my mouth and the dip felt slimy and pale. The broccoli was crisp and its flowering tops felt like little toes as I began to chew, the particles separating in my mouth and scraping against my tongue. The smell of the dip pushed back down my throat, as if to reach down my gullet. Something jerked inside me. I gagged and bent over and away from the table, and I stumbled towards the kitchen. My footing gave way and I was on all fours, on the carpet hurling. I heaved, once, twice, my stomach rejecting everything. My stomach pissed off. And fuming. Eyes closed, arms stretched out before me as if in prostration, I breathed. I opened my eyes.

The mess in front of me was pink and lumpy. Smelling it, I retched again. What was I going to do? Oh God, what could I do? I couldn't let it set in that carpet, that perfect white carpet. I ran to the kitchen and looked around desperately, rummaged under the sink, in the cupboards. Nothing to get rid of stains. Nothing to help me. Nowhere to turn. Horrified, I stumbled to the door, fumbled with the lock, spilled out into the painted morning. Running from my defacement.