I open my eyes.
In her apartment, she’s making tea, I’m sleeping, snow’s freezing in the streets.
Water into a kettle on the stove, another saucer full of milk. Black tea leaves tumble at the bottom, little kids in the adult side of summer swimming pools. I’m not awake yet. Frozen bread in the freezer, she takes out two pieces and pops them into the toaster. There’s blueberry jam in the fridge, I think she takes some.
I wake up and brush my teeth. Her cat sneaks into the bathroom with me when I’m not looking. He meowls in the closet, I stand on a chair, we glare at each other over a pile of hand-knit sweaters. Neither relents, but ice-cold water is running.
She sees me and pulls out a tea strainer from the third drawer to the left, the one that reminds me of Hermione’s time-turner. You can use this. There’s also some tea in the kettle, but I like my tea a lot sweeter than you do. I peek into the kettle. There’s not much left.
Her sister asks me to prepare lunch. I can’t cook, and she knows it. OK, I say. OK.
And I try my best, I really do. But the rice sticks to the frying pan before the sprouts are cooked, the sprouts burn before I add enough seasoning, and the seasoning plays hide and seek with me and who has time for that anymore.
They all tell me the food isn’t that bad. Just a bit bland.
Just a bit bland.
Just a bit bland. I tell myself that life here isn’t that bad.
Because I try my best, I really do. But the conversations slip through my fingers before an interesting reply deigns to sashay up to the tip of my tongue, the memories blur before they have a chance to soak and settle into paper, and the years and the relationships play hide and seek with me but I still have forever for that.
I ask my friend how she knows so many people. I can’t talk to half of the people here, and she knows it. You just talk, she says. You just go up and talk.
I see Powell cat and crouch down to pet him. Black and white, he reminds me of Dragon. You’re so cute and fluffy, I squeal as I scratch his ears and smooth his pelt. He stares away at the leaves still hanging on the trees before Kaufman. There aren't many left.
I wake up and brush my teeth. It’s 4:30 in the morning, and my twin slips in with me when I’m not watching. She stares into my eyes, so I close them, she doesn't know there's nothing to see through a piece of glass. Neither relents, and ice-cold water is running.
It used to be like this. Water into an electric kettle, a paper cup full of milk. Black tea leaves stuffed into a tiny red tea strainer, little kids in the kid side of public swimming pools. I had just woken up. Fresh toast from the cafe on paper plates, she takes none because she was just about to go to sleep. There’s packaged strawberry jam in the dayroom, I think she takes some.
In my dreams, she’s cooking, I’m eating, fried rice burns on the stove.
I open my eyes.