Nine small private moments. No occasion.
The everyday Jan, alone — in her apartment, in her car, in the shower, on the floor for unclear reasons. The interior life that nobody is watching. The texture of being a person in a body in a room.
Eleven minutes in the car.
Engine off, radio off. The house light is on; the cat is in the window, judging. I'm not avoiding anyone. There's nothing to avoid. I just don't want tomorrow to start. Out here, today is still happening. I'm not sad. I'm resting in a small, parked way—not sleep, not movement, just being. The cat blinks. I'll go in. One more minute.
Dinner is whatever was easiest.
Mostly noodles. I eat standing at the counter because the table is for visitors, and I am not, today, my own visitor. The medium bowl. The taken chopsticks from the Vietnamese place. I'll wash them later. Outside, a dog walks by. Inside, the fridge hums. I have eaten worse, in better company, and felt less full. The noodles are good. The standing is good. I think I'm okay.
I'm on the floor for unclear reasons.
Not sad—just here. The carpet is the carpet. The ceiling has a small water stain I should probably ask about. There is a moment, between "I should get up" and "I haven't," where you make a decision without making it. Five more minutes. Maybe ten. The cat comes by, looking at me with the level concern of a small CEO. We agree, wordlessly, that the floor is a valid place to be. She lies down. Now we are both here.
The coffee is exactly right.
Not because I did anything differently. Because the universe blinked. The sun hits the window perfectly. The favorite mug. The exact heat my hands were asking for. I am not yet a person. I am pre-person. But for these ninety seconds, between the first sip and the second, I am whole. The world will resume shortly. I'll let it. The coffee, today, is just right.
I'm sorry.
I forgot you. Twice. The leaves are mad and they have a right to be. I brought water and a small speech composed at the sink. The speech is: "I'm not always like this. I am, in fact, often like this. But I'm trying." The plant accepts the water without comment. Fair. We're going to get through this together, I tell the plant. The plant says nothing. I think it forgives me. I think it doesn't. I'll know in a week.
She cancelled.
We had plans, and she cancelled, and I am typing "totally understand, get some rest" while levitating slightly off the bed. I love her. I love her even more right now. The night that required me is now mine. I'm going to do nothing with it, on purpose. The wrong dinner. The wrong movie. Unobserved. We'll reschedule; we always do. Tonight: a holy nothing. Tonight I will hover.
The shower at the end of a long day is its own building.
I went in tired and came out thinned. The water was the right temperature for once. I cried a little—which is what showers are for. Nobody asked why, and I appreciate that. Now I sit on the edge of the tub, hair wet, brain quiet. The cleanest I've been in a while. The world will be tomorrow. For now, just steam. I look pretty good in fogged.
Sunday at four is its own weather.
The light goes soft, the laundry is half-done, the week is suddenly close. Holding a cup of tea. Not, technically, doing anything. The Monday-feeling has arrived early; it always does. There is sadness in Sunday-at-four, and there is peace—the trick is they're the same thing from different angles. I've done less today than planned. I've done exactly what I needed. The light is going. So is the tea. So am I.
I put on the real pants.
No occasion. No errand. I just wanted to feel like a person who has buttons. The pants fit, which is suspicious. I look in the mirror and an adult woman looks back. Also suspicious. I am dressed for a day I have not scheduled. Now what. The cat does not care; the cat has never worn pants. I make tea. I sit on the couch in real pants. This is who I am now, possibly. For one whole afternoon, a person with intentions.