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February 14, 2005
Morning Song
I'm sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of lukewarm tea, my book facedown next to a bag of apples. The orange of the paperback stands in sharp contrast to the speckled green of the apples. I am lost.
After months of gray weather, it has finally snowed; a meager inch which has already melted on the balcony yet is judiciously shoveled from the sidewalks leading from the apartment doors. I stood on the balcony, watching the snow swirl around me, defying gravity and landing in my hair, and then I tracked wet footprints into the kitchen, my slippers making sticky sounds as they dried on the dirty floor.
The sun is now up, or at least there is enough light outside that the kitchen lights are redundant. I leave them on, noticing that two of the cupboards are slightly open, adding to the slovenly feel of the room. The dishes in the sink are dirty, but I ignore them, choosing to focus on how the wallpaper, a pale shade of beige with innocuous pastel fruit, is beginning to peel away at he seams.
I put my head down on the table. In the silence I can hear a dripping noise. It's not from the kitchen sink, maybe it's the melting snow outside.
I am alone. My roommates, sleeping just feet away from me, aren't real. Behind their doors they cease to exist, like a version of Schrödinger's cat. Schrödinger's roommates—I feel quite witty. Schrödinger's cat, Schrödinger's roommates, Schrödinger's purpose in life; if one cannot observe an object directly…
The profound thought escapes me and I stare out the window. Occasionally, a bird swoops by, wheeling against the gusts of wind that keep the snow dancing in the air.
