I explained why I required a two bedroom apartment for myself.
“Space to think in is essential.”
“Essential for what?”
“Creativity. Sanity.”
Our laziness kept us glued to the couch, listening to classical music that was too low to really be heard. It provided a background. Our minds—mine for certain—were empty enough to have a deft conversation.
“I haven’t seen you insane.”
“Precisely. Let’s hope you never do.”
“Why would you want to hide something about yourself?”
“Some things aren’t pretty. I can be terrible in some regards. I don’t know, it’s tough to explain out loud.”
“When is it easy to explain?”
I distinctly remember feeling uncomfortable. My left arm was falling asleep and I was running low on responses.
“When I’m older, maybe. When I’m wiser.”
I couldn’t feel her hair anymore. “Move your head up a bit. I can’t feel my arm.”
She did and I became aroused.
“I like you,” I said. “I like you asking questions.”
“You seem annoyed.”
“I’m not, not annoyed. I’m just not used to it.”
“Used to what?”
She smiled and I reached for her with my tingly hand. I felt quite close to her then.
We moved to the bedroom later, for a couple of hours. She mentioned that I should buy a night stand for the other side and hang a painting or photograph on the opposite wall.
“It would look nice.”
I thought about my walls looking nice or staring into white oblivion.
“What should I put on the wall?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think you’ll pick something perfect.”