Settling into a new apartment is a series of little discoveries: The walls are thin enough to hear the downstairs neighbor's baby crying in the middle of the night. The hall light is for some reason controlled by a switch in your flatmate's bedroom. The ceiling in your bedroom is just low enough that a less-than-careful stretch will result in scraped knuckles. I have started to build routines around these things. They evolve quickly from novelty to annoyance to fact of life to unconscious habit.
On Tuesday evening I am in a terrible mood. I have neither focus nor energy at the gym and I am incapable of locating the right track on my iPod to translate my anxiety into extra sets of bench presses. Carrying the weight of the last twelve waking hours has exhausted me. Nothing specific made today any more demoralizing than yesterday, but it somehow is. I suspect the effect is cumulative and that tomorrow will likely be worse. I depart for home, workout only half finished.
There are at least five people I should call back in New York. I need to look for a new job. I need to transfer money between continents to pay my already overdue bills in the States. I can not to do any of these things. I want nothing more than to lie in a xanax-and-red-wine-induced torpor in a hot bath. It is during this attempt to create a high point in my day that I become aware of yet another feature of my new home: the drain plug for the bathtub does not completely seal. The rate of drainage is almost imperceptible. Seven minutes after settling in up to my chin, the water barely covers half of the phoenix tattooed on my hip. Two minutes beyond that I'm lying naked in an empty tub.
The small room is hazy with steam. What little remains of the water I was soaking in is floating in the air above me. As the room cools it clings to my skin before rolling off and down the drain. I have no idea how long I lie there. I'm shivering by the time I stand up.
Sigh......
ReplyDelete