Written on a Vine Leaf

First, he needs a space; something with architectural appeal. He isn’t imaginative, not really, so he was drawn to the frosted glass wall, cut into squares. It reminds him of the graph paper he used in math class all those years ago, when he’d spend more time trying to make a red 4 look like a 9 than he spent on the homework. How do kids get by these days when everything’s computerized and teachers are calling home once a week to get their grades up so the school won’t lose its exemplary or exceptional or whatever status it is that gets them the most funding?

So he has a graph paper window, and a few squares of glass here and there on the other walls to… something. There’s a word for it. He went to college to learn all the silly words designers and psychologists make up, and now he’s forgotten them all.

Which reminds him: every room needs a bookshelf, so the bookshelf goes against the graph paper window. The books themselves don’t matter. They should seem intellectual, but not interesting enough for anyone to ask about them at a party. He buys them at used bookstores, to take credit for the creases someone else put in them. A cookbook, an art book, a foreign book, and the odd LP just to add flavor. He will say he listens to vinyl because they pop and scrape. He will say something about the beauty of imperfection. Someone will be impressed.

The bookshelf have closed drawers to hide mysteries. They will wonder what he keeps in those drawers, and never guess that they are empty.

He adds another set of shelves that are glass and hold nothing but odds and ends, bowls of spheres, a non-flowering plant in a square white pot. It will be impractical and hip, and give the impression of disposable income. On top, he will set a figure of Catwoman from the old Bop! Bap! Punch! series. He will call it art and say something about Warhol. Someone will be impressed.

There must be real art as well. Nothing meaningful. Nothing deep. Nothing someone could ask about at a party. He chooses pieces based on how well they fit his color scheme—warm colors to offset the icy neutral. Whoever created those pieces will never know the higher purpose he’s put them to. He feels sorry for them.

Eclectic furniture fills the empty space across from all the shelves; hand-built stuff with wood and weave and asymmetry for a touch of whimsy against the modernist backdrop. The seats will not be comfortable, but they will have second-hand wear along the corners. He will sit and tell second-hand stories and second-hand jokes, but he will keep the nods and laughs for himself.

Light fixtures are like cupcake sprinkles. He has a knack for finding unique lamps; one of his only true talents. For this space, he finds two glass fixtures. One hangs on the wall, long and flat like a giant thermometer. (He will not make that analogy in mixed company, or the graph paper one, because they age him.) The other is a simple table lamp, an inverted teardrop body bubbling on the inside to refract light into little prisms on the plain workman end table.

Notebooks next to the table lamp are a finishing touch. The implication of writing. Perhaps it also ages him, but he can’t help himself. There is something inescapable about the notebook. He always kept them around him, and he always left them blank. He could never decide what to write.

He steps back when it’s finished and lets his eye drift over the horizon he’s created, then he leaves it for someone else. He bought the place to fill it with things. He will give it to someone else to fill it with people, and in the night, he can close his eyes and imagine he is there, making small talk over martinis.

Days after he’s made the sale, he makes the mistake of walking by the apartment building where he created his treasure and made it a gift for some stranger. He wants to be close to it, to wait for the visitors to come, and to breathe the air that they breathe.

He’s made the mistake before, but his heart still seizes up when he sees the familiar corner of a bookcase peeking out from the dumpster. He goes to it, hoping he’s made a mistake. Along the worn edge of the asymmetrical couch, a cockroach flicks its antennae.

He likes to think it’s impressed.

She had teeth once. She remembers the way they felt on her tongue, scraping or biting; a welcome distraction. Now it’s all gone soft like a rotten apple. She presses her fingers into her gums, but it’s not the same. Fingernails are thin and brittle, not like good, strong teeth. Fingernails can only scratch. Hands can be held down. A mouth is vibrant, threatening, even when gagged. A bite is enough to scare off an unwelcome kiss — a good mouth, not her rotten apple mouth. Now, like a dog they could kick her, and she couldn’t even bite their ankles. Maybe if she’s quiet—little, old, rotten, fingers in her mouth—maybe they’ll kick the younger dogs instead.