I wake up, not remembering falling asleep, and everything is pitch black. I vaguely remember crying into the pillow, the shame of the event at the pool table quickly rushing back. I force myself back to sleep.
I wake up the next morning my clothes are stuck to me with sweat; I forgot to open the central air vent and it was a humid night. I change clothes without showering and give myself a look over in the mirror. My hair is sticking straight up and though I try to mush it down it – as always – pops right back up. There is an outcropping of pimples on my right cheek. Completely disregarding my feelings on the matter puberty is knocking on my doorstep.
Looking out the window I see people going about their morning routines: walking dogs, exercising, getting the paper or getting into cars and cab and going to work. It isn’t the amount of people that I have set my high New York City expectations to so naturally I’m a little disappointed. It is like visiting someplace you hadn’t been to in a long time and realizing it is much smaller than you remembered.
I’m feeling pretty great as the metal stairs – to the rest of the apartment below – reverberate against my feet. That is until my eyes fall over the pool table. I can’t stay here. Not today.
I appear to be the only one awake. My father’s guest room – also upstairs – was open when I walked down the stairs so I know that he is already at work. I can’t even be sure I’ve seen him since the night we got here. I walk past the couch into the front hallway of the apartment thinking that’ll spend the rest of the day in the park.