One Inch Square

By: ffluffy

Dedicated to: everyone living their lives the best they can

That one spot on my desk is warped from coffee cups and spilled food. The varnish is almost the shade of wood but more like the color of the inside of tree bark, where the soft pith starts. My finger nail leaves a dent where I picked off a piece of hardened Doritos. White specks are randomly distributed through the area; I peer closer to find a pattern. It looks like the splash when a diver does not execute a nine or ten (or how vomit would look when it hits the floor from a fall of four feet) and is sort of in the shape of a butterfly, one who is going to die soon. That section of desk smells like the inside of my nose, or the inside of my nose smells like my desk, maybe it has no smell. I can’t tell because when I lean over and inhale, nothing strikes my brain. I tasted it by licking my finger and wiping it on the desk and licking my finger again; my tongue touches dust, Cheetos and Earl Grey tea. That part of my work station needs to be washed, scrubbed, scraped, and re-painted and it is usually covered by books and pens and scraps of sticky notes and random papers. I uncovered it to get a better look at it. I wish I could peel it off and rub it all over my body but instead I wipe the inside of my wrist across it, the smooth flesh touches warped fake wood that is colder than me, colder than the room but warmer than the snow outside. If I listen closely I can hear the ocean. Shhhh.  Listen.