“Tell Me; I’m Listening” BOSSIER MINI-ZINE, FALL 2022
WHENEVER I WOKE UP, night or day, I’d shuffle through the bright marble
foyer of my building and go up the block and around the corner where there
was a bodega that never closed. I’d get two large coffees with cream and six
sugars each, chug the first one in the elevator on the way back up to my
apartment, then sip the second one slowly while I watched movies and ate
animal crackers and took trazodone and Ambien and Nembutal until I fell
asleep again. I lost track of time in this way. Days passed. Weeks. A few
months went by. When I thought of it, I ordered delivery from the Thai
restaurant across the street, or a tuna salad platter from the diner on First
Avenue. I’d wake up to find voice messages on my cell phone from salons
or spas confirming appointments I’d booked in my sleep. I always called
back to cancel, which I hated doing because I hated talking to people.