even your worst ideas are better than antietam

We sat in the living room, staring at the ten foot by fifteen foot expanse for thirty minutes, debating the final hue the drywall would take.

“Blue is happy. Blue is comforting,” she said. “It will make her feel more at home.”

I’d heard that picking room colors was hard from my friends, but I felt like at this point she was just being stubborn.

“For the last time,” I told her, slapping the paint chips flat against the sheetrock, “she’s not going to care. She’s a fucking dog.”

“i have many weaknesses,” i told him. “shall i list them for you?”

“sure,” he said, lightly pressing the back of my head. “start with the ones i know about first, kind of like a refresher course.”

“fair enough,” i responded, now staring down at my own chest, and began. “cheese, most kinds. wheat thins, regular. blueberries, ripe. ice cream, most kinds. beer, most kinds. cake, warm. cookies, with milk. kale, crispy…”

his hands moved across my head. his left gently pressed against the side, and i let it tilt with his motion.

“boring,” he interrupted. “no more edible weaknesses.”

old songs played on a new stereo that didn’t help them sound any better. the wall was a flowing pattern of shapes in front of me. my glasses sat uselessly on a nearby counter.

“sunshine, all kinds,” i continued. “the rhythm of the waves crashing, or lapping, at the shore. the smell of freshly cut grass. the song of birds, but not at four in the morning.”

“never at four in the morning,” he echoed. his hands kept working, so i continued with my list.

“the music that brings back the people i don’t get to see anymore. the scents that sweep me back home, a home that feels like a ghost. the memories of who she was before all of this. the thoughts that maybe i’m not doing this right. the feelings that maybe i’m letting him down. the knowledge that one day, all of this will be done and the fear that i’ll have spent it looking for one thing but dreaming of something else. the ache for old friends, and the low ache that comes with the approaching end of a weekend with them. the tension of time management in new relationships. that smile she gave me the last time i saw her. the fear that i’m not doing enough, giving enough, thinking enough, listening enough, walking enough, sitting enough, or sleeping enough.”

the clip of his scissors had slowed to a stop. he was behind me, and without my glasses i couldn’t see what he was looking at. he was a blur of blending colors and shapes. his eyes were darker blurs and his beard bled seamlessly into his dark shirt. my glasses still sat uselessly on the ledge in front of me.

“you would make,” he told me, “a terrible superhero.”

on the first day you forget your shoes, no one notices much. whether it’s the lack of coffee or simply a skipped step in your morning routine, you don’t put on your socks, and so of course you don’t think about your shoes, and then it’s out the door and maybe the gas pedal felt funny, now that you’re remembering it, but at the time it felt so right you couldn’t even be bothered to notice. and when you got to the parking lot, you noticed, but explaining to your boss that you’d forgotten seemed like more work than just faking it, so you marched inside, thinking the words your mother told you:

“if you walk confidently, people will rarely question you.”

on the second day without shoes, you did it on purpose. the first day had just felt so fucking good, you know? the smooth rolled fibers of the carpet and the lack of the constant tug of socks scrawled halfway up your legs had been too intoxicating. when your boss noticed as you were getting coffee, you just shrugged and lied, telling him that your shoes were “back at your desk,” and you felt like you’d lied to God in the garden until he came into your cube to tell you something unimportant later that day, and you’d seen him glance down and smile but not say anything. and maybe that’s what adam and eve felt like too, caught in their sin but still not coming out with it.

on the third day, it was as much the thrill of rebellion as it was the spring in the air.

on the fourth day you were drunk with power. your feet had already grown slightly more calloused, and you were ready to take on upper management if they asked about your new habits.

on the fifth day it was cold, and in a moment of weakness, you considered putting on socks. not shoes, but socks. the idea seemed half-formed even as you thought it, so you shrugged it off and toughed out the chill of spring.

on the sixth day, a new week even, you’re not sure if it’s the lack of coffee again or a deliberate attempt to connect with those carpet fibers, but you don’t even bother with your shoes in the morning, and this time, you get a note from the aptly named “human resources” department, reminding you of the company’s policy of “shoes required.”

on the seventh day, the lack of notice crests once more, and you shrug when your boss makes a joke about how gross “people who don’t understand hygiene are.” he pretends it’s about people who don’t shower, but every now and then, his eyes dart beneath the table to your dirty, wonderful feet beneath his desk.

on the eighth day, you notice your boss is wearing sandals.

what a dick.