no rhythm, no time.

There is this irregular tapping noise in my apartment. I’ve been sitting on my couch, reading cookbooks and wondering why a ukulele is sitting next to a harmonica on the ottoman. I’ve been telling myself I’ll get up soon, replace the stack of old Sunday New York Times sections with this week’s, and then clean the bathroom. But, I just keep sitting here, listening to – and against my will, waiting for – the tapping noise.

It’s raining outside, which is totally fine. If I look at the weather before I leave my house, I never comprehend it, so I was surprised earlier when I tried to go for a walk and it started raining. I called my mom and sat under the overhang at the grocery store. I bought cereal, milk and bananas. Milk is expensive, and I’m upset I could only eat one bowl of cereal and banana. I wanted to eat at least half the box. Had it been warmer, I might have skipped the grocery and had some sort of enlightening tour of my neighborhood while getting rained on and not even caring about the fate of my phone (I have rice at home). That didn’t happen.

The tapping could be rain-related, and I feel vibrations from its echo underneath my skin. Even without drama, I have options: I could leave the room and forget about it; I could put my headphones in and not hear it; but, I just keep listening. I’m not entirely sure I want it to go away and am positive the girl with the green jacket in the coffee shop yesterday wouldn’t be bothered by it at all if she was also sitting on my couch. I wasn’t judging her; I just know. (She’s dramatic, too.)

Her father didn’t work in the town where she grew up. Had he, he would have been a factory worker and she wouldn’t have gotten out of there. (She could have been in retail, but that was absolutely not an option. She was made for her job, this city, her fiancé.) She laughs now about her overall wearing high school boyfriend who drove himself to eleventh grade in a tractor. She’s twenty-nine now and remembers that he didn’t live on a farm. He lived in a trailer, and she joked about his ride being “green”. (She’s buying her fiancé an indoor composter for Valentine’s Day.) She’s friends with every single person from high school on Facebook, so she should figure out where he is now, but it would be breaking the rules if she invited him to the wedding. “I can’t believe you’re thirty-two,” she said to the man to her right. I stared at the sad woman reading the paper on a floral print chair, hating myself for wasting so many words talking about things like age and time. (Waste-not, want-not, or something like that.)

The ukulele is sitting on top of a notebook, and I wonder if one of my roommates decided to start writing songs. There’s a vase of flowers on our table: the flowers at the bottom are dead, but the branches creeping through the death have green buds on them. She has a lot to write about, I think. I’m not sure which one she is, but I can’t wait to hear her sing.


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