His place was like a museum. There was so much art everywhere. I went upstairs to use the bathroom. More art wrapped up in paper. "Careful not to touch anything," I told myself. Then I tripped on a vacuum cleaner... damn.
I was his object.
In the morning, I woke up next to him; it felt nice to be close. I noticed he put up a new painting. Pretty. I watched him get ready to take a shower; a cue for me to get dressed.
On my way out, he asked me, "How's your life?" to which I responded by looking away. He asked me again, "How's your life?"
"It's fine," I said.
Except it wasn't fine.
"I read your Facebook. The one about the girl in the New York Times. It was funny."
I couldn't remember what he was talking about. He was reading up on me. But I was right here.
"Are those shoes new?"
I wore them on our first date.
"Did you cut your hair?"
Like a month ago.
Collectors are like that. They don't have to interact with their beloved objects all the time. It's just... there. And every now and then they take an interest, but otherwise, there's no upkeep. His life was like a museum. Well curated. But poorly kept.
from http://luluandyourmom.blogspot.com/
