arrange something

by deav - 27 feb 2008

SCREEEEESH … DRUUMM!


She trembled violently and opened her eyes. Panting, heart beating fast, she was disoriented at first, in the dark. Someone was screaming and shouting outside, but at first it felt like a nightmare.

Fuck, she thought, lying back down, still shaking and nauseous with her heart in her throat. She tried to focus her ear above the sound of the fan. Someone was cursing really loud; to her it meant that nobody had been seriously hurt. She took a deep breath and turned to the side.

“Fuck,” she said low, when she accidentally saw the alarm clock: 4 am, universal insomnia time; wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night time; cry-yourself-to-sleep time; and, apparently, wake-up-trembling-because-of-the-sound-of-a-car-crash time. Sometimes it was a gunshot. She could go on and on about 4 am, but she just wanted to go back to sleep.

“Fuck,” she grunted, knowing that going back to sleep would not be so easy. She rolled to her back and spread arms and legs. Eyes adjusted to the dark, the streetlights made the room annoyingly illuminated. The noise of the fan was just as annoying. She snorted, irritated.

And then she sneezed. Of course, it was hot, but the artificial wind against her naked skin made her shiver. There was the dust, too.

I have to vacuum the room, she thought, rolling to the other side and wrapping herself in the sheet. On the weekend. Maybe clean the top of the wardrobe. Change bedclothes too. Maybe she could finally clear the armoire and give all the empty folders to her nieces. After all, they’re plastic, good quality, for school. But then she would have to clean the vacuum cleaner… That was no problem. But for the clothes recently washed, she would have to take them from the hanger and keep them before cleaning the dust bag, otherwise they would get dusty, because of the wind. It always winds. She remembered the old house, the windstorms that used to shake the window frames. And that mini tornado, she had spent the night on the couch, grabbing her purse, watching tree branches fly by the window in the living room. On the eleventh floor.

“Shit,” she whispered, when she remembered that she had to repair the rack hanger in the wardrobe, collapsed under the weight of the clothes that now piled up on the inner shelf. Was she doing the same thing here, she wondered, let the house crumble down? It seemed the two houses were twins, it seemed that they were somehow connected, in a spooky way; the new one had developed problems in the same areas as in the old one. That leak on the bathroom ceiling. The clogging in the lock of the front door. Windows that don’t lock. Useful things piling up in the service room for future use. But she did not want to think about that. She had to sleep.

She turned to the other side to face the fan, feeling hot all of a sudden. Maybe it was time to give the old furniture for donation. She was feeling suffocated, as if things were cluttering around her. She didn’t need the rocking chair. Or the colossal bookshelf/tv rack. It was about time to change the couch, too. Yes, just get rid of it. She could give away the books too; and the cds, her brother-in-law would be thrilled.

“Good plan,” she mumbled, pulling the sheet to her shoulders. She forced the lids shut, trying to ignore the dim. That old mattress in the service room would have to go, definitely. She could assemble the single bed again in the spare room and use a futon for mattress. And the couch would go to the living room. Without the bookshelf, she would need another piece of furniture for the tv set. She wondered if that good store was still open, they had lovely pieces. Maybe this time there would be enough money to buy the crystal closet she’s always dreamed of, to keep her trinkets, stones, crystal jars, candles. Her hourglass collection, of course.

“Right,” she yawned, rolling again to the other side, grabbing the sheet by her breast but leaving the feet out. Maybe this way she could have friends for dinner; use that book of Greek recipes at last. It would be nice to have people in the house other than the cable guy or the doorman. Maybe he would come and she would not be ashamed of the mess.

“Not again,” she said out loud, opening her eyes. She sighed and closed them again slowly, holding back a stubborn tear. She knew that he would never come. She cuddled herself and cried, deeply, quietly. No one would hear her with the noise of the fan. Next thing she would wake up with the maddening sound of the alarm clock, not even noticing that she had fallen asleep. As usual.