eastern sun
hungry little creature
- Joined
- Nov 19, 2005
- Posts
- 2,703
There are the obvious marks - the signs and symbols, the physical footprints of untold activities. But I want a place to speak of the subtle moments, the small mundane events that reinforce my position.
Like the choosing of a seat in a restaurant. Since he always chooses his seat first, I rarely have a view of the people at the other tables, the layout of the building. Occasionally I face the kitchen, the bathroom, almost always a wall. And always him. I watch him watch the room. I focus on his face. His conversation. And must turn in my chair to catch the waiter's eye when his drink is empty or it's time for the check.
Or this morning.
It's early. I'm just dressing. He has to work this weekend and asks as he leaves, "do you want to go to store with me?" I tag along, and he picks up the Sunday NY Times, removing the best sections. "Do you read the front page?" he asks. "Yes." So he leaves it for me, along with the bulk of the paper that will ultimately be recycled. "See you later," he says abruptly as he walks out the store to the subway. And I laugh and pay for the paper and carry it home, smiling at the triviality of the moment and how deeply it makes me feel like his slave - to be brought to the store to carry the heavy newspaper he'd never read home.
Like the choosing of a seat in a restaurant. Since he always chooses his seat first, I rarely have a view of the people at the other tables, the layout of the building. Occasionally I face the kitchen, the bathroom, almost always a wall. And always him. I watch him watch the room. I focus on his face. His conversation. And must turn in my chair to catch the waiter's eye when his drink is empty or it's time for the check.
Or this morning.
It's early. I'm just dressing. He has to work this weekend and asks as he leaves, "do you want to go to store with me?" I tag along, and he picks up the Sunday NY Times, removing the best sections. "Do you read the front page?" he asks. "Yes." So he leaves it for me, along with the bulk of the paper that will ultimately be recycled. "See you later," he says abruptly as he walks out the store to the subway. And I laugh and pay for the paper and carry it home, smiling at the triviality of the moment and how deeply it makes me feel like his slave - to be brought to the store to carry the heavy newspaper he'd never read home.