Put down these words. I think this in my head, but what I put down is a book filled with words. Something old with a green cover. Something that I cannot concentrate on any longer, though it made me laugh a short while ago. I'm on page 164. I repeat that to myself a few times, so I won't forget and then I lean back more fully against your pillows, which are propped up behind my back. I close my eyes to think about you instead. That is all I really want to do right now. Think of you. Though I know that you will be here soon and I will really have to pay attention to you. Not that I mind that either, I want to, but usually my thoughts are more compelling.
I think I know everything and nothing about you.
I do not mind waiting for you here. In this strange place of yours. Your home. Three floors up from the ground, just one large room with big windows facing inward, instead of to the outside. The indoor windows let in the false daylight, dimmed to a dark green for the night. I wonder if this used to be an old prison. You've told me the top floor has skylights, but those aren't for you. At least, not yet. Maybe someday, if you want it bad enough for that long. You think you're good enough, you admit it to me. In five years, you say, if you don't get bored and I believe you. I think you want a lot of things or maybe it's that you want nothing at. There is something that keeps you so unsettled. But you aren't much of a talker.
You're always moving something instead. Tapping your fingers, bouncing your toes, biting the inside of your mouth or the skin around your thumb. But it doesn't matter. I like your face and the things I can read on it, the things you do not want me to see. The things you cannot hide. You have heavy black drapes that you draw every evening almost as soon as you get in the door. You will pace around your room, instead of coming to me, until you close them shut. Sometimes I come to you, so I can prolong it from happening; I like to watch the people coming and going. I like to watch you fidget, snap your fingers or tap your leg and glance towards the window. I like seeing how long it will take before you say, "I do not know why you open these" and make your way over to shut them. No one can see in anyway.
It's too easy to get used to you. And I don't think you mind me much either. But this is the first time that I'm here. Still here. Two weeks and I haven't left the building. You encourage me to stay in. "It is only going to get worse," you warn me, but I think that you are wrong. Every thing a person needs is in this building. There are food places, exercise hubs, the movie house and clothing rooms and most important to me, the library downstairs. Everything is free. You just have to ask and it appears. Into your hand or delivered upstairs to you. No one seems to mind that I'm here either. "Hello, again," the many say to me, as I wander around this place, and maybe even the librarian is excited that I'm here. No one looks as happy as me to be there. She walks by and drops a new book in my pile most days. A lot of fiction. But I'm giving them a go.
I've started to make another friend. Her name is Michelle. I think she is here like me, with someone like you, but we have not spoken about many things personal. We both like the study of reptiles (and a few other things too, but you never ask). We've met for the last five days. I like her and I do not care if you will because it seems you will not. You have brought up me going out with her for a drink this coming Saturday for three nights in a row now with petulance on your face and a whine to your voice. "Do you think it is a good idea or even a safe one to make more friends?" I have asked twice if you would like to come with us, but both times you pushed my head down into your crotch. It was funny the first time, even appropriate, but now I'm starting to feel like you do it every time I try to speak. You do not even understand why I read in the library; why I just don't bring the books upstairs right away.
Your room is clean and uncluttered (except for the bike that I've never seen you use) and it is fine. A souped-up hotel room. But I hate your bathroom. It's dingy and small and painted the wrong colour; just a sink and a toilet hidden by a half-wall. It feels like a place where creepy-crawlies would live. I look on the floor for the moisture bugs, look in the corner up by the ceiling for spiders. I never find any, but the hairs on my shaved legs prick through the skin every time I have to pee. If you are not home, I go down the hall to the Shower Room. It's cleaner and brighter in there. Sometimes when you are here, I will claim I need a shower and take my second of the day just to get away from you.
The first thing I want to do, when I wake each morning, is leave this room. I think about going home. Everyday, as though you can read my thoughts, in my ear you say, "Don't go. I want you to stay." And then you uncurled yourself from me, get out of your bed and I know that I am safe.
It is always my final conclusion, and with that, suddenly my thoughts of you are less compelling and I just want to sleep until you get back here again. Sleep is familiar no matter where you are. Besides, you haven't said my name, not once in the whole two weeks I've been here. You call me Stupid instead. I told you it didn't make me feel good, but you ignored me and you keep doing it. You act like you're being funny or like it is a term of endearment, but I think you do it because you do not remember my name and are too embarrassed to ask me, so I know it is not me who is stupid. You should have agreed to come to coffee with Michelle and I for that reason alone. Maybe you do not care what my name is.
No one cares, not too much, about anything these days. Or maybe just enough. A human only needs to eat to stay alive. In Leipzig, the buses parked across from the Hauptbahnhof during the evening on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to disperse food to the Stranded. But it was getting harder to keep the streets clean there. I was thankful everyday that I had only brought a backpack with me this time. And that on the way over, I stole the airplane blanket because it fit me so well. No one cares where the Stranded sleep, as long as we were up by five in the morning and looking busy. I've mostly slept in the doorways of stores, where it was well-lit and where I could keep dry with all the autumn rain. But owners started putting up gates. I knew then I had to move on.
But the gates are going up in your city too and it has only been three months. Will anyone care to help at all in three years? There is News from my country. They are putting pressure on yours, but it is just dialogue, not sanctions. There are bigger concerns. They have killed the Stranded in other places like Russia and Saudi Arabia, and in parts of Africa too. My country is considered a shining example for the world. We have the most total Stranded. We have them all housed in real homes and many have found jobs. They look happy. Our Leader encourages all countries to be like us. In your country, political officials are being thrown out of their seats for housing stranded friends and family, including your Chancellor. In your country, the banks will not allow me to access my foreign funds.
No one knows who did it.
When you come in tonight, you are smiling and then I am too, but who knows if you practice first, before you open the door. I've done that. Notice you walk by the window in that hunched-over way of yours, and prepared myself.
It's a good thing I've met you. I was almost out of money.
I think I know everything and nothing about you.
I do not mind waiting for you here. In this strange place of yours. Your home. Three floors up from the ground, just one large room with big windows facing inward, instead of to the outside. The indoor windows let in the false daylight, dimmed to a dark green for the night. I wonder if this used to be an old prison. You've told me the top floor has skylights, but those aren't for you. At least, not yet. Maybe someday, if you want it bad enough for that long. You think you're good enough, you admit it to me. In five years, you say, if you don't get bored and I believe you. I think you want a lot of things or maybe it's that you want nothing at. There is something that keeps you so unsettled. But you aren't much of a talker.
You're always moving something instead. Tapping your fingers, bouncing your toes, biting the inside of your mouth or the skin around your thumb. But it doesn't matter. I like your face and the things I can read on it, the things you do not want me to see. The things you cannot hide. You have heavy black drapes that you draw every evening almost as soon as you get in the door. You will pace around your room, instead of coming to me, until you close them shut. Sometimes I come to you, so I can prolong it from happening; I like to watch the people coming and going. I like to watch you fidget, snap your fingers or tap your leg and glance towards the window. I like seeing how long it will take before you say, "I do not know why you open these" and make your way over to shut them. No one can see in anyway.
It's too easy to get used to you. And I don't think you mind me much either. But this is the first time that I'm here. Still here. Two weeks and I haven't left the building. You encourage me to stay in. "It is only going to get worse," you warn me, but I think that you are wrong. Every thing a person needs is in this building. There are food places, exercise hubs, the movie house and clothing rooms and most important to me, the library downstairs. Everything is free. You just have to ask and it appears. Into your hand or delivered upstairs to you. No one seems to mind that I'm here either. "Hello, again," the many say to me, as I wander around this place, and maybe even the librarian is excited that I'm here. No one looks as happy as me to be there. She walks by and drops a new book in my pile most days. A lot of fiction. But I'm giving them a go.
I've started to make another friend. Her name is Michelle. I think she is here like me, with someone like you, but we have not spoken about many things personal. We both like the study of reptiles (and a few other things too, but you never ask). We've met for the last five days. I like her and I do not care if you will because it seems you will not. You have brought up me going out with her for a drink this coming Saturday for three nights in a row now with petulance on your face and a whine to your voice. "Do you think it is a good idea or even a safe one to make more friends?" I have asked twice if you would like to come with us, but both times you pushed my head down into your crotch. It was funny the first time, even appropriate, but now I'm starting to feel like you do it every time I try to speak. You do not even understand why I read in the library; why I just don't bring the books upstairs right away.
Your room is clean and uncluttered (except for the bike that I've never seen you use) and it is fine. A souped-up hotel room. But I hate your bathroom. It's dingy and small and painted the wrong colour; just a sink and a toilet hidden by a half-wall. It feels like a place where creepy-crawlies would live. I look on the floor for the moisture bugs, look in the corner up by the ceiling for spiders. I never find any, but the hairs on my shaved legs prick through the skin every time I have to pee. If you are not home, I go down the hall to the Shower Room. It's cleaner and brighter in there. Sometimes when you are here, I will claim I need a shower and take my second of the day just to get away from you.
The first thing I want to do, when I wake each morning, is leave this room. I think about going home. Everyday, as though you can read my thoughts, in my ear you say, "Don't go. I want you to stay." And then you uncurled yourself from me, get out of your bed and I know that I am safe.
It is always my final conclusion, and with that, suddenly my thoughts of you are less compelling and I just want to sleep until you get back here again. Sleep is familiar no matter where you are. Besides, you haven't said my name, not once in the whole two weeks I've been here. You call me Stupid instead. I told you it didn't make me feel good, but you ignored me and you keep doing it. You act like you're being funny or like it is a term of endearment, but I think you do it because you do not remember my name and are too embarrassed to ask me, so I know it is not me who is stupid. You should have agreed to come to coffee with Michelle and I for that reason alone. Maybe you do not care what my name is.
No one cares, not too much, about anything these days. Or maybe just enough. A human only needs to eat to stay alive. In Leipzig, the buses parked across from the Hauptbahnhof during the evening on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to disperse food to the Stranded. But it was getting harder to keep the streets clean there. I was thankful everyday that I had only brought a backpack with me this time. And that on the way over, I stole the airplane blanket because it fit me so well. No one cares where the Stranded sleep, as long as we were up by five in the morning and looking busy. I've mostly slept in the doorways of stores, where it was well-lit and where I could keep dry with all the autumn rain. But owners started putting up gates. I knew then I had to move on.
But the gates are going up in your city too and it has only been three months. Will anyone care to help at all in three years? There is News from my country. They are putting pressure on yours, but it is just dialogue, not sanctions. There are bigger concerns. They have killed the Stranded in other places like Russia and Saudi Arabia, and in parts of Africa too. My country is considered a shining example for the world. We have the most total Stranded. We have them all housed in real homes and many have found jobs. They look happy. Our Leader encourages all countries to be like us. In your country, political officials are being thrown out of their seats for housing stranded friends and family, including your Chancellor. In your country, the banks will not allow me to access my foreign funds.
No one knows who did it.
When you come in tonight, you are smiling and then I am too, but who knows if you practice first, before you open the door. I've done that. Notice you walk by the window in that hunched-over way of yours, and prepared myself.
It's a good thing I've met you. I was almost out of money.
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