Call Me Ishmael

It’s cold outside, so cold that I can hear the wind howling and my window isn’t even open. It isn’t late, but it feels like the middle of the night and my eyes are closing but I can’t sleep. It’s been minutes or years I don’t remember, but when a body leaves their imprint on yours no amount of scrubbing will bring it back to normal and make it new again. I want to call myself something else.

I want to change my name and my face and be someone different, just for an hour, just for a day. I’d like to wear different clothes that I didn’t wear with you, and do my hair in a different way so that I don’t look like myself. I don’t look like myself.

I mean, I do, the face is still the same and the curve of my waist is still the same but now it’s different, now it has invisible black ink all over it and I honestly don’t remember when I agreed to this kind of permanence.

I walk into the same coffee shop we went to in the mornings but I give a different name. I wonder if the barista notices that anything is different, I don’t think he ever remembered my name in the first place, and I like that. I like that to him I’m just an anonymous face, someone he has to service before he can turn the sign on the door. I like that he doesn’t pay attention, because he is a person to whom I have no sadness, and today, that feels good.

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