her hands rose to her face wearily. bags carrying too many nights of missed rest settled beneath her brown eyes. she yawned, stuck one finger deep into her fro and scratched. sitting here was unproductive. it suddenly occurred to her that nothing about this desk or this small laptop said success; it was messy and unorganized, and deodorant sat next to a meant-to-be-discarded bluetooth, which was next to a butter knife slanted towards an opened silver nail file. she imagined the nail file the woman, the much larger butter knife a man, leaning in for the kiss. a blackberry atop a Dean Koontz novel watched in silently on their intimate moment. a rather snazzy black oval desk lamp hovered over the gathering of completely unrelated items that made up her desk mozaic, although shedding light on any of their stiuations would be nearly impossible with no lightbulb screwed into it.
looming above the desk, was a corkboard. large and important looking, until one actually took the time to gaze at the tacked notes on it. one, a sheet full of crayola-colored stickers shaped in the form of flip flops one might wear to the beach, evidently torn from an old Lucky magazine. sticky notes, she supposed. one yellow and one orange sandal outline told her that she’d only ever saw two things worth noting with a sticky flip flop. next to them, a solemn picture of John Coltrane, black and white, mouth on reed, ready to create magic. a simple font with his name attempted to fill in the white space that made the undersized picture reach it’s full 8×10 intentions. several fortune cookies lined up like soldiers next to Mr. Coltrane, he was in good company. “genius is the capacity to take infinite pains.” one says. she wholeheartedly disagreed, wondered why this was once thought worthy of a spot on the board, but nodded to herself and moved leftward, to yet another ripped out magazine page encouraging her to “give back!” apparently in the purchase form of a t-shirt with the original cover of Catcher In The Rye ironed on it. interesting.
various other not-sticky notes were pinned below, telling her where to put a comma in some passage (though it seems it would make more sense to just input said comma), where to add another chapter, where to buy vitamin e oil, carotein, and a nearly unpronounceable hair oil called hesh shikakai. an expired chase bank letter informed her that she would receive a $100 bonus for opening an account and attaching a direct deposit of at least fifty dollars to it. she landed lastly on a note that actually garnered some of her attention, written by her at some past point she didn’t recall:
love wasn’t some awakening; love was found in the still moments when no one was paying attention but you. love was him knowing to turn the heat up when he woke so you wouldn’t be cold when you got out of the shower, because he knew you hated night bathing. love was him ironing your shirt when he ironed his, because you also loathed ironing. love was you not being mad about a forgotten toilet seat in the upright position, and making sure to sneak flaxseed in his morning meal each day. love was in the big yet insignificant things.
now that, she could agree with.
wrote this one day before i moved, while looking at my desk and observing all the random crap that had collected. it’s sad, really. but it amused me. lol
new Sliding Doors up at some point this week
end. promise. lol