There are a string of expectations that unroll unconsciously when you walk in the door of your home. Mail on the table. Messages on the machine. Welcoming pets in the entryway, noses pressed to the windows. Family in the living room.
In my efficiency unit I'm unstrung. No phone, no fur, no family. My possessions are propped among the generic furniture as I try to establish a new routine.
The television goes on immediately to provide conversation and color without actually being watched. I light a stick of cedar incense to plant my flag in the war of dinnertime odors clashing in the hall.
The guitar player next door has expanded his repetoire, singing and playing a variety of music at irregular intervals , never before 9 a.m. or after 9 p.m. Sometimes arguments or laughter lift above the hum of television, radio and other electronic companions.
I know the musical and culinary preferences for at least six units around me, but would not recognize one person living behind the doors.
I'm a lone sentry guarding the hours between coming from and going to the office.
I could go to a movie or visit a relative, but it would deliver me here in the darker hours. The time when the nearby parking spaces are gone and careful neighbors are well settled. It's a constant balance of risk and reward.
So I have time to write. And read.
And realize I'll never complain about cleaning noseprints from glass again.


Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs