After the divorce I took to scrubbing the kitchen counters, so much so they had become smooth and soft, better than my own bed it seemed. I decided to spend the night, just to see what it was like. I squeezed the knife block, the food processor, the microwave and the toaster right into the corner, leaving plenty of room for me to stretch out. I grabbed some blankets and a pillow and climbed up, flicking the light switch with my toe.
The longer I stayed, the more I noticed. The smells deepening: the bananas, the apples in their basket hanging above my head, the faint smell of all the cleansers. I could feel the house settle, the refrigerator hum. The moon shone through the window, and more, I could see the tree branches slowly sway. I knew that when I’d fall asleep instead of the usual reenactments of all the things I’d done wrong, I was going to have amazing dreams, the sort where when you open your mouth nothing but poems pour out, the sort where you even get to remember some of those poems. And one of those poems would be so good maybe, maybe. I closed my eyes.
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