It’s a jungle, thick with the scent of the tropics in a pot. The vines curl upward and around the cheap knockoffs of Monet hanging loosely on the walls in second hand picture frames. The door clicks shut behind her, and her shoes hit the tiled floor of the foyer with two distinct thumps.
“I’m home,” she calls, balancing her purse, coat and the mail in her arms as she weaves her way through the obstacle course that is their apartment in her goal to reach the kitchen. It’s like a third generation art café exploded as the coffee drips across the kitchen floor and into the garden that is the living room.
The books trail off into the distance and she follows them down the hallway, knowing who will be at the end of the journey. She finds him unconscious across the bed, face down in the pillows, littered with the stubs of cigarettes long gone and the remains of a garden. Poppies and leaves bloom along the sheets, remnants of a dying summer. Opium and marijuana.
She loosens her hands and today’s mail falls loose, landing hard on top of him.
“Wake up,” she whispers. He won’t though. He’ll be out for another hour at least.
She plucks the poppies from the sheets and walks back to the kitchen, cradling them in her arms. The rush of running water in the sink, the sound of nature against metal echoes through the room until she shoves the bowl beneath the stream. She places the poppies within the water and watches them float there, sustained in animation as she curls up on the overstuffed sofa, a sad replacement for a lover.
She breathes deeply and leans back, her hands surfing along the gentle curves of her body while the buttons snap open, falling away to the floor.
It’s Tuesday, and she should be at work.
She’s at home though. Making love to a man who can’t participate and probably never will.
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