Holding hands is weird. There really isn’t a comfortable way to wrap your fingers around another person’s, at least when they’re as long and flexible as mine. I don’t like being big, being lanky, being flabby, bony, tall, strong, being so many contradictions which somehow only seem to make sense when I think about them in separate pieces. Breaking apart my own attributes just as well as they break me apart.
So here I sit, with my long and uncomfortable fingers. In my bedroom, dimly and colorfully lit, as I find comfortable. My palms fit into my eye sockets, resting my head and my eyes and my hands, while making the dim light meaningless in observance, but reassuring in it’s presence.
One more week. That’s all I’ve got before I throw myself out of the plane and fumble around for my ripcord. While wearing a blindfold. I wonder why I wouldn’t be excited for that? Why would I not be excited for the birthday that precursors voting, buying a lottery ticket, having sex, having jury duty, going to college… struggling financially… making lifelong decisions… Yeah. I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be excited to suddenly be thrown into doing everything with an overwhelming sense of uncertainty leaving me with no time to do what’ll actually excite me.
My cat crawls out from under my bed. How long he’d been there, watching me contemplate alone, is something I’ll never know. How he got into my room since the door was locked is something I can only guess.
He screams at me, as he tends to do. Letting loose yowl after yowl for attention. I’m certain that he’s smart enough to know the best thing for me right now is a distraction, and he’s more than happy to provide one. But there’s too much. I’m going to bed soon. He’ll pee in my room if I don’t wake up to let him out. Excuses just pile up in my mind as I sit there without even looking up from the dead skin and calluses on my palms.
When did those get there?
I move to the door of my room, half my height but half the height of the room at the same time. He stares at me, I stare at my hands some more. Rough. Why do people always seem to prefer holding smooth hands?
Noticing that I am in fact not petting him, my cat makes his way back under my bed, much to my dismay.
“I. need. you. out!” I yell, snapping my fingers under the bed, clapping my hands around the room, slamming my palms against the plastic totes which sit under my desk. He knows what I’m doing and waits. Those noises aren’t enough to bother someone who’s touch starved and patient for some petting.
So he sits, untouchable under my bed. I turn off the meaningless dim lights and lay down on the covers. This will have to be enough for now. It won’t be worthwhile to get comfortable under the warm fuzzy blankets if I’m just going to stand up a moment later. I know it won’t take even a minute before he comes back out and jumps onto my bed, happily kneading his claws into the various organs I wish weren’t there.
After a few moments of darkness and anticipation, I feel a deep thud next to me. He’s here. I quickly swing my feet around and leap up, grabbing the mildly weighted cat in the process so I can fling him out the door. I set him down in front and unlock the hinge. As if knowing what I’m asking, he walks right out without even looking back at me.
I lay down again, under the covers this time. My cat left, my thoughts returned. My blindfold on, the ripcord invisible. I guess I should be getting ready to jump… I miss my fuzzy distraction...