Third Floor

It was bizarre to imitate my kitten, who squeezed into the floor today and emerged coated in black wax, and hide above everyone's heads as my mother served coffee and cleanliness to a few book group enthusiasts keen on vehemently discussing nonfiction. I had for company: a red couch covered in freezing cold pleather that swallowed me between its folds, a bottle of seltzer speeding towards room temperature every second, and my customary Safari tabs, Netflix and Facebook, red and blue. They caressed me as only abstract visions from solitude can, but none had hands warm enough to coax me into sleep.

I heard glimmers of conversation drift up the stairs and I'm sure the four of them heard echoes of showtunes sung slightly offkey drift down, but the solid facade of privacy persevered, even as I hid behind the kitchen counter clutching a cup until the party migrated into another room. Not that I'm not used to pretending like I am somewhere else - everyone needs a smiling mask in their collection, unblemished by the imperfections of teenage children, work, and everything else that disappears at night like light running over the horizon. It was simply bizarre to do it in my own home. And that is all.