ah, back at last.
the gorgeous, one bedroom condo.
("three-sixty degree views,
in 4500 square feet of living space.
there is no other property in Portland with a comparable view.
an entertainer's dream").
you peel off your socks,
and sit on one of four couches and feel
the twelve ticks of three Minimalist Marble Wall Clocks,
each serving a precise aesthetic purpose, and
elbows on knees you sit in the silence of the fiftieth floor.
pressed lips you fidget and start for one of two kitchens and grab a Lagunitas Sumpin' Easy Ale.
("super smooth and refreshing.
with a fruity finish,
which tastes like biting into a freshly picked peach")
peaches remind you of summer
summer. summer means peaches and mimosas. and carafes. and dainty white chairs tucked into undersized white tables, faux-wood cutting boards and you imagine it
you imagine the stock photo models smiling and clinking and laughing
and you should buy peaches and maybe another carafe because even though it is winter, summer will be here before you know it because "the week just flew past me hahaha, where does all the time go?"
so you get your phone, the clocks tick
you open instacart and buy some peaches. ten peaches. no twenty peaches. and seltzer water. lots of seltzer water
you close instacart and swipe left, then right, and then sit, paralyzed for a moment, waiting for your body to do something
but as you wait that feeling trickles in and you open twitter and pull down but nothing new appears so you click into a profile. but you don't want to look so you close the app, swipe left and lock your phone and you sit again elbows on knees the fridge is still open you forgot to close it and now
three Amedei Toscano Black Truffles in your hand an invitation to the pleasure ("an invitation to the pleasure of chocolate with no limits") with no limits and you put them in your mouth and keep putting them in your mouth, and you wonder how many calories is in this Amedei Toscano Black Truffle and how much sugar and how many calories you ate today and how much fucking sugar was in that supposedly healthy mango smoothie you ordered those bastards but you keep stuffing your face like a fat piece of shit and the three clocks tick and your legs start to shake. up and down up and down and you scroll back and forth and refresh swipe refresh and your heart beats faster against the fighting the thick silence and "this feelings going to my head this feelings going to my head" plays over and over in your ears. you don't even like the song but the same line over and over again and why is it so fucking loud on the fiftieth floor what the are you paying for and
ALEXA! alexa! alexa! alexa! alexa!
turn on Seinfeld
the intro plays and three clocks tick and your Burrow couch throbs but it's not soft enough.
not soft enough, you should look for a replacement soon, yes, tomorrow you will spend the evening looking for a replacement. it needs to be done
and the city lights reflect off Kramer's face and ALEXA CLOSE THE BLINDS.
the blinds moan an industrial whir obscuring the oppressive yellow and grey and you clap.
your chocolate coated palms clap.
the sound reaching no one.
the lights go off,
and the soothing sounds of laugh tracks lull you to sleep.