Interior Design

Release brings rebounding ache, rush of blood and patches of starlit gray. From this high you can see the layout clearly, cheap furniture covered wisely with bottles of wine and newspapers opened to classifieds, hiding imperfections.

Lie down with me; the child’s eye view completes the assessment. Do you see now why the table rocks back and forth? Dadoes instead of dovetails. Forged with wood glue. You would be wise to pull the table cloth low to the floor, to hide your feet; Quickly, now. Quietly, still. Give yourself time to mark your notes underneath, but not on the removable leaf! Not like when you gave your frustrations away.

But there’s no time for that. Because you need another view from above, and he helps you up, back against the wall, though hard to breathe at higher altitudes and clenched airways. Still, from here the perfect vantage of the doorway, its half-mitres hiding the end grain well, except for that spot near the latch where he kicked it in from its frame. But, again, no time for that!

A forced turn of the cheek and you see that the window has its own charms, even for corner halving, an odd choice for a view that frames the street, and school bus stop beyond, but the look isn’t long.

Now back towards the doorway, shoddy work…
the window…
the doorway…
the window…

And the starlit gray over pleas for enough. Release. With eyes shut, you have a better sense of the mortar’s texture as you slide. You might notice the best designers work with their eyes closed, enhancing touch and sound. Sight unseen, they might joke. Better seen and not heard, you counter.

The touch of the exposed nail that could catch a woolen sock; the sound of a loose floorboard, which might wake someone who’d rather be sleeping. You could use your hand to find the flaws, but a child’s skin is best, more sensitive to every contour, fingernails too soft to scratch the veneer. It’s so sad, you fucking monster, that you needed help for such a simple task.

Still, you don’t believe any home completely unsalvageable. Too many high-priced fixers-upper sold to nice families from far beyond this little town, pushed out this way to god knows what by the noise of the city, by crime, by fear of danger and dilapidated schools. Here, to the safety of smallness. Welcome to our home. The floors are oak.