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how far is it to happiness?
by Angela ThomasSix flights suddenly feels like forever. My apartment seems to always
be a mess and I don't quite know how to make it clean again. I want
to lay in bed and sleep, sleep until I hear my elderly neighbor, Louise,
get up to go to Gristedes for her bologna and white bread. It takes
her at least forty-five minutes to get up and down the stairs. I feel
like she's the hare. There's never anything on my one thousand TV
channels, or my sixty-five radio stations, my endless series of tangled
Internet searches. At least, there's never anything that interests me.
There is no pair of shoes comfortable enough and no pair of pants
with enough pockets to hide all of my secrets. The phone rings and
I silence it - I need the quiet, it feels cool and soft - a pillow in the
summer right before you nuzzle into it. I made a turkey sandwich
for dinner. Rather, six nights of dinner. I'm bored, I'm lonely,
I want you. I need you. It's not the six flights, its the thousand miles. 11/11/2006 Posted on 11/11/2006
Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas
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