Untitled 39 — Tamarinding

I unconsciously rub my thumb against the non-existent calluses on my fingers.

Soft.

I haven’t climbed in 5 months.

—

i didn’t know
where i ended and
the world began.
i was swept off my feet.
It was beautiful
and brilliant and
i hated every moment.

—

You know, for months, I’d been donating platelets.

Every 2 or 3 weeks, I’d lay in a cot for 2 hours, a tube stuck into the crook of each arm. They’d pop in a DVD of my choice— today’s was Pulp Fiction— and I’d just be laying there, watching John Travolta two-hand stab Uma Thurman in the chest with an adrenaline shot, while the blood was being drawn out of my right arm, spun around in a centrifuge to separate out the platelets and plasma from the blood, and then fed back into my body through my left arm. Watching my blood cycle through a machine and back made me feel queasy though, so I tried to focus on the movie.

Donating platelets was pretty okay. It was just the last 15 minutes or so I’d start to get uncomfortable. I don’t know if it was the sitting still for 2 hours or the physical exhaustion of losing platelets, but I’d always get antsy towards the end, watching the electronic display count down the minutes of processing left. The last 5 minutes were the worst— I longed for the release, to be free from the all the tape that held down the tubes and to be free from the needles pulling and pushing liquids out of and into my body.

But it was okay.

I could count down the minutes.

After the attendant finished disconnecting me from all the things, I’d get up, collect my stuff, sit in the waiting area and munch on a bag of mini Oreos or Doritos whatever other junk food I’d never buy. Once I felt steady, I’d walk up to the receptionist and schedule my next appointment. Two or three weeks later, I’d be back in the same damn chair with probably the same attendant again. I’d watch a different movie though. No sense in watching the same movie twice.

But, walking through the hospital yesterday, all the patients lying in their beds, some for a few hours and others for a few days and others who knows, all of them with tubes connected, at least one if not more, dripping some liquid or other—

fuck, man, is there a count down to even watch?

—

She sits at the table, staring into the yard.
A permanent frown sits low on her face.

Florescent lights reflect off the glass screen
and I reflexively reload the page
so I can see the same exact screen again.

One more time.
And again.

I think about the things that make life worth living
and dream idly.

Does she?

—

Sunlight spills through the window, directly onto the bed.

I stretch out against the sheets briefly and curl back up on my side, orange cat encircled by my limbs, one crescent embedded within another.

Do cats experience time the same way humans do?

If I sleep as many hours as one, will I experience that time too?

Let’s find out.

—

In that moment, I wondered if you regretted it.
If it had all been a mistake.

In that moment, I wonder if I will regret it.
If it is all a mistake.

That’s what terrifies me.

—

I’ve started swimming in the lap pool at the gym.

I watch enviously as the others swim so cool and confident.

They don’t look like they’re drowning.

Of course they’re not— the pool is only 5 feet deep.

I kick off from the tiled wall, my hands splitting the water before me. My face scrunches up in concentration and terror.

One stroke. Two strokes. Three strokes. On the fourth, I turn my face up and to the side, desperately sucking in air before I’m submerged again.

One. Two. Three. Four and gasp.

Each circuit, I feel like I’m being drowned anew.

One. Two. Three. Four and gasp.

Is this what being waterboarded feels like?

One. Two. Three. Four and gasp.

An hour passes, and I walk into the shower to wash away the chlorine.