Rosana dropped me off at my apartment after work.

She’s nice..I work with her at the local toy store up town. Ostensibly, she has her shit together and I admire that, she also speaks two languages so there is underlying envy; not malicious envy but admirable envy.

I clumsily waddle to the vestibule of my apartment complex and shove the key into the door of the front entrance. I shuffle down the hallway quietly because I secretly believe that my neighbors are watching me through their peep holes. So, naturally I keep my head hung down so no one can really see me.

I make it to my door. Apartment number 6.

I flick the light and drop my belongings within the narrow hallway. Who cares? I live alone.

I turn on my lamp that sits on my art desk and take a deep breath in.

So…this is it. I find myself saying that a lot. I should be more enthusiastic and announce some positive mantra, but that’s not me.

I sit on my stool and stare at the wall. This sounds depressing, but it’s not, it’s perfect. It’s quiet and I’m in my own company. I look down at my desk and I realize I have more toys than any woman my age should own. I scatter them around a little so it doesn’t seem like a six year old actively plays at my desk when I’m not home.

There. Better.

My drawing pad seems lonely, so I run my finger tips across it. Hello, old friend. I skim through the pages and notice that the last thing I drew were depictions of the human body…all incomplete of course.

I take out my anatomy book and start to draw once more the physique of a structural perfect male. Suddenly, anxiety creeps up on me and I can barely keep my 4b pencil still.

How can drawing make me this anxious? Then I realize it’s not the act of drawing that is upsetting me but the man I’m drawing; he reminds me of Mark. Now, I am livid and I want to break something. How could I let someone have this much control over my emotions?

I try drawing a woman, but I cannot help but think of Mark. I don’t miss him, I don’t want him, and I certainly don’t want to spend time with him. I still feel hurt, and neglected. The way everything ended was horrendous and now as I draw the limbs of a man I’ve never met and I am reminded of a man that tore my theoretical emotive limbs apart.

I slam my drawing pad shut.

I fall onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. I think of the Russian homework I’ve yet to do and how long before my rent is due. I haven’t purchased cable or internet so my thoughts are left to amuse me. To my right hand side, my tin ballerina sits on the window sill. I get up and reach for her. I place her on the floor and kneel down to play with her.


I pull her tin pin and she begins to twirl and spin.

Everything is going to be okay.


One thought on “Twirling

  1. your blog has a bit of a Thomas Hardy spirit to it. Hes my favorite dead author who always likes to kill his main characters in the most unjust ways. When I get hurt by a person and cant lay the memory down, I on purposely draw a picture of them and put my whole heart and soul into capturing their essence. I draw them in a scene I need to see. ( like them walking blindfolded down a grim reaper path.) Not that my whole wall is covered with evil drawings… Just one occasionaly.

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