Gorgias

I had to take off my shoes before entering the apartment. It was well over 4AM and I had promised not to stay out too late. I walked on my thin socks toward the kitchen, which was at the far end of our big living room. It was laid out in a rectangle: the door of the apartment opens into a tiny hallway, and opposite the front door is the toilet. To the left, upon entering, is the living room, which is a four-to-one rectangle in the direction of the front door, i.e. perpendicular to the hallway we share with three other tenants. About halfway on the right wall of the living room was the door to the bathroom, next to that the kitchen which was also on the right wall and behind that, against the back wall of the room — well, technically only ten percent of it is wall, the rest being windows and a balcony — is the door to the bedroom, which was as well-lit as the living room, and therefore our paradise.

From the kitchen cabinet below the sink I took one of the ridiculously tall glasses that we can’t find any other place for but really want to keep, just to have them. I filled it with water from the tap, quietly, so I wouldn’t wake her up, and I sat down on the couch she’d designed. I was also wearing the clothes she had designed. And looking at the small table that supports our record player. Which she’d designed, the small table. She’d made them all as well. I had designed the bookcase and the dining table, and built them. My feet felt the lush carpet on our wooden floor, feeling it through the thin fabric of the sock, one hundred percent cotton because otherwise I get sweaty and smelly feet. Her hands had also made the carpet.

I quietly opened the door to the bedroom, lifted the sheet on the far side of the bed, spooned her and whispered, “sorry and thank you”.