The bed and toilet room
*I have since moved into a bigger 'bed and toilet room'
This is the apartment I am with. I would never say ‘this is my apartment’. It doesn’t belong to me and it doesn’t feel mine.
Four walls, each eight feet wide or long. They’re white, of course. They’re what I’d call hospital white if I had named the paint can label.
There’s still a few fingerprints near the window from the last person, but I’ve never even thought of wiping them off because I don’t care. Soon, someone else will be looking at my fingerprints on the walls.
There’s two doors, both plastic, one to the bathroom and one to the hall. They are two-months-old newspaper white – faded and almost yellowing.
There’s two windows even though I’ve only ever opened one. The curtains can only be described as old-lady peach. Very basic pleats in a polyester-type material. When I open the smaller one to lean my head out and smoke I see the wide windows of three people’s rooms in an aluminum-roofed building five feet below. One belongs to a man who does something for the army because all I ever see out of his window is green uniforms.
Another belongs to a couple who sits on the floor and watch tv most of the time. On Saturday mornings they have sex and he makes two quick noises at the end. Once I think he thought I was peeping because I happened to have my head out of the window, smoking, and when they were done he saw me. He picked up a sheet to put over the window, even though all I can see is the tv, and then shook his head before he shut the window. As if I gave a shit what he was doing. As if I was seriously sitting there for him and his performance. I cursed myself for not knowing enough Thai to say “doesn’t sound like much to see anyway, buddy. You’re the only one who ever makes any noise.”
And then I looked at my own poor, unfortunate bed. Two mattresses covered by two white sheets given to me by the campus hotel.
In the other corner is a black armoire. It doesn’t belong because it’s dark and big and new and nice. The floors are covered in tile, this time bone white. Every day I must sweep red hairs and cracker crumbs and make-up dust and dirt off it because it all stands out so badly. Frankly, it scares me to think about the things that get hidden in carpet.
The bathroom isn’t worth mentioning, which is why it actually is. It’s one foot by four feet by 7 feet and covered in, you guessed it, white tile. At one end is the toilet and the other the shower, which is really just a hanging wand and a curtain to separate the two clearly distinct areas.
It’s not an apartment at all really. It’s more, as I wrote to friends a ‘bed and toilet room’. Those are the room’s sole functions for me: a place to sleep and go to the bathroom
This is the apartment I am with. I would never say ‘this is my apartment’. It doesn’t belong to me and it doesn’t feel mine.
Four walls, each eight feet wide or long. They’re white, of course. They’re what I’d call hospital white if I had named the paint can label.
There’s still a few fingerprints near the window from the last person, but I’ve never even thought of wiping them off because I don’t care. Soon, someone else will be looking at my fingerprints on the walls.
There’s two doors, both plastic, one to the bathroom and one to the hall. They are two-months-old newspaper white – faded and almost yellowing.
There’s two windows even though I’ve only ever opened one. The curtains can only be described as old-lady peach. Very basic pleats in a polyester-type material. When I open the smaller one to lean my head out and smoke I see the wide windows of three people’s rooms in an aluminum-roofed building five feet below. One belongs to a man who does something for the army because all I ever see out of his window is green uniforms.
Another belongs to a couple who sits on the floor and watch tv most of the time. On Saturday mornings they have sex and he makes two quick noises at the end. Once I think he thought I was peeping because I happened to have my head out of the window, smoking, and when they were done he saw me. He picked up a sheet to put over the window, even though all I can see is the tv, and then shook his head before he shut the window. As if I gave a shit what he was doing. As if I was seriously sitting there for him and his performance. I cursed myself for not knowing enough Thai to say “doesn’t sound like much to see anyway, buddy. You’re the only one who ever makes any noise.”
And then I looked at my own poor, unfortunate bed. Two mattresses covered by two white sheets given to me by the campus hotel.
In the other corner is a black armoire. It doesn’t belong because it’s dark and big and new and nice. The floors are covered in tile, this time bone white. Every day I must sweep red hairs and cracker crumbs and make-up dust and dirt off it because it all stands out so badly. Frankly, it scares me to think about the things that get hidden in carpet.
The bathroom isn’t worth mentioning, which is why it actually is. It’s one foot by four feet by 7 feet and covered in, you guessed it, white tile. At one end is the toilet and the other the shower, which is really just a hanging wand and a curtain to separate the two clearly distinct areas.
It’s not an apartment at all really. It’s more, as I wrote to friends a ‘bed and toilet room’. Those are the room’s sole functions for me: a place to sleep and go to the bathroom
posted by Natalie at 9:02 AM
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