Top | Tales from a Studio Apartment
(post, David Silva)
I entered my apartment, took off my shoes and sat on my futon. I don't even think I turned on the light. I just sat there, in silence, hearing the cars rush by on a wet street. There is some urban beauty about that sound, the "shhhhhh" of tires driving on concrete in the rain. Kind of like waves on the ocean, but you're in the city. I finally turned on the light, changed clothes, turned on my computer, and went to my fridge. I poured myself a glass of a delicious Italian white wine and just stood in my kitchen listening to the rain outside. Hunger (or maybe just a case of "the nibbles") finally crept in, and I returned to the fridge in search of food. I had worked late, and knew I didn't want to eat a lot that late at night. I peered in to the vastness that is the fridge of a bachelor. 2 Eggs. Shredded Cheese. Tikka Masala sauce, a sleeve of celery, a Coffee Crisp candy bar, white wine, and a jar of natural peanut butter. Without even thinking, as if some puppeteer was in control of my body, I reached for the celery. I reached for the peanut butter. I leaned against my counter, and started dipping. A thought came into my mind, the thought that made me want to write this post. Here I am, in my shoebox of a kitchen, at 9 PM, in my gym shorts crunching on celery. I do give an occasional dip into the peanut butter. ( I am mad I have no raisins for "Ants on a Log".) I take a sip of my wine. But I simply cannot shake this thought: How did I get here? How did I become this? How did I turn into a wine-drinking, celery munching 28 year old? Any other 20-something would have fried those eggs, smothered them in cheese, and ate the entire candy bar without a thought. But no. Too lazy to cook even eggs, I am eating celery for dinner and listening to Sade off my itunes. I heard my mother's voice in my head: "THAT'S IT? THAT'S what you're having for dinner?" I smiled at the thought. I am perfectly content. Yes, I'm in a small apartment. Yes, I'm having celery and peanut butter for dinner. Yes, I'm washing it down with white wine, of all things, but I was so tranquil, so at peace. Like electricity, another thought came to me. I know what's in the freezer. The very last drop from a carton of ice cream. I take it out of the freezer, and let it sit on my counter so it gets melted. I'm singing along to Sade as I clean up what little mess I made. Then, I take my ice cream carton, a spoon, the magazine that came in the mail and sit on my bed. Pure happiness after a night of working late. Wine. Celery. Peanut Butter. Ice cream. A 5-star dinner in my book.