affective

week 51

A little short story for ya!

Affective
by Shea Stanley

6:03 on the TV clock and her door is sealed by darkness. It pushes, pushes on the front door, sequestering her inside the orange light of her living room. It’s cold outside but she is warm under her throw. The blanket is soft and the night is easy and she is miserable. Her day has ended without her permission. When, when did her day finish? All day long she counted down the minutes til she could be in this exact position, feet high on the armrest of the couch, women yelling at each other on the TV. And yet she is miserable, the darkness pressing on her from outside the door onto her skull.

What exactly to do? She likes this show, she likes this dip she’s eating, the candle smells nice. And yet, a feeling, an urge, ants in her big soft pants. Everyone is busy. Nancy has her pottery class. Heather’s at work. Maybe Ryan and June, but they don’t reply often and she has a sense she could not currently withstand a lack of reply, not with the darkness and the ants in the pants.

So what, then? A different show? A movie? She can’t stand the idea of looking at her list of recommended programs, feels resentful it even exists. Who does that list think it is, telling her what to watch? And god forbid she scroll through the Netflix homepage. She may as well look down the toilet drain, it’s just as helpful.

Her foot is bouncing. What to do, what to do? Dishes sit waiting to be washed, laundry could be thrown in — is that it? Get the house clean? This is what she’s dreamt of all day while cleaning up toy cars and vomit, the chance to come home and clean her house she doesn’t want to be in? No, no! Feminism wanted more for her, or something. She’s more than a person who cleans, or something. She’s…a person who watches TV.

No, no, no. This can’t be it, this can’t be it. A book, find a book to read. She has a shelf full. One is even bookmarked on her coffee table. Grab it, grab it! Quick, before the dishes call again. The book is in her hand, but where to read it? She can’t bear to sit on this couch any longer. She hates this couch, this comfortable couch full of crumbs and nights wasted. She hops up. What now? Into the bed? No! No, no, no!!

Surely there’s an answer somewhere. The 20-somethings on TV, the TV she loves so much. What do they do? They hang out with each other. She has none to hang out with, with their pottery classes and their jobs that they go to without her. She should have more friends, an easy hang, a place to go. Where do they hang out, these people on TV with so many friends. A bar? A bar! Go, go to a bar!

Go, go, go!! Her shoes go on, her black boots that have a hole in the bottom. Put them on, the ground is dry, so who cares! A light sweatshirt, grab it, don’t think! Don’t let the laundry pull you in! Which bar, though? She reaches for her phone, begins to look at the list of nearby bars. The phone feels so heavy. The opening hours and photos of the “vibes” begin to drain her, the couch begins to call. She can’t pick, can’t take it in — go, just go!

She throws the phone onto the dreaded couch with no choice made, throws it hard, daring it to break. She unlocks the deadbolt — almost there now don’t look back. She doesn’t even bother to flip the light switch, can’t make physical contact with this house for fear it will grab her, keep her horizontal. She pushes and the door cuts through the heavy darkness like a knife. BAM! The night fills her nostrils. She’s free. She’s out. She’s vertical. A few steps off the porch and the darkness welcomes her. It wasn’t pressing on her skull, it was inviting her out, begging her to join. She gets to live once more. The crisp air at her face — yes, yes! She pulls the sweatshirt over her head. The air is cold so she is cold. The air is cold so she is cold.