Ruby Red Marionette

eighteen | solar

There was a throw pillow under my face when I woke up. It partially blocked my vision when I opened my eyes, but not enough that I couldn’t see what was in front of me. For a few moments, the two chairs in the middle of this strange room reminded me of Charlie’s home, and my heart began to race with my thoughts. But it couldn’t be Charlie’s home because there were only two chairs in his living room. Here, there were two chairs and the couch I was laying on.

I tried to get up, but something about this pillow wouldn’t allow me to. It wasn’t soft, nor did it have an entrancing smell. I just wanted my face to stay where it was.

By the amount of sunlight that shone through the two windows across from me, it had to be almost eight o’clock. The silence in the apartment, the soft bubbling of boiling water from the kitchen, and my yearning to stretch were all indications that the sun had just risen. This was the first time I was witnessing a sunrise indoors; I spent most of my mornings buried under Simon’s pillows, roaming the streets after emerging from something disturbing, or (on rare occasions) face-down in my bed in the studio.

I guess the latter would no longer be an option.

“Yeah, drop it off today, please. I’ll be here all day.”

Isaiah’s voice. The memories came back to me all at once, along with my senses; only now did I feel the dried tears on my cheeks, or the strange discomfort on my cheek. I peeled my face off of the pillow, whose African zig-zag patterns were now imprinted into my skin. Half of my face probably looked like a dashiki, I was in a stranger’s home under strange circumstances, and my face was stiff and dry.

But that was the best sleep I’d gotten in a long time.

Isaiah appeared from the bedroom in the back, a landline telephone in hand. He put the telephone on its base, which sat atop an old Bose speaker, and then headed for the kitchen. He stopped in the corridor between the living room and the kitchen, standing still for a few moments. He turned, then, and looked at me, just realizing that I was awake. He sighed, as if my consciousness was a burden, and walked over to me.

“Good morning,” I said, sitting up. Now my settings had marinated; I was on his couch, pillows strategically placed under my head and feet and a blanket thrown over me. It was still on me, but half had slid down to the floor. On the floor, a few feet away from the edge of the blanket, was a cup of half-empty coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts that I didn’t remember drinking.

“Good morning.” Isaiah nodded. When he opened the door for me last night (which was just hours ago), he looked tired and drained. Now, standing at an angle that made his eyes and skin gleam in the light, he looked rejuvenated. Not necessarily happy - seeing me seemed to remind him that he had unwanted company to entertain - but well-rested nonetheless.

“Thank you for this,” I gestured to the blanket he laid out for me on the couch.

I turned my face to examine where I’d slept for the past four hours, and my textured cheek faced him.

“Sorry about that,” He pointed to my face. “My uncle gave me that pillow.”

“Your uncle’s Nigerian?”

“No, he’s a Moor. And he’s dead.”

I pushed the pillow away from me almost too immediately. “Sorry,” I told him, not bothering to ask what a Moor was.

“How’d you sleep?” He asked, leaning against the wall and slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The monotonous edge to his voice when he asked the question reminded me of last night. It’s the same tone he used after I came inside.

I greeted him at the door, and he stared at me for a few long seconds that made me want to consider turning around. Then I asked to come in, and he leaned against the wall and asked me what brought me around at that time of night. I explained to him that I was homeless, wasn’t interested in going into the details of why, and needed somewhere to stay. He told me to rest on the couch, and we had no further conversation.