By The Loneliest Man in the World
Well, how about that. At first I thought it was a fluttering leaf or one of those floaters you see when you rub your eyes too hard. But there’s a moth in my apartment. Neato.
I was hoping it might be one of those really big lunar moths. They’re beauts. But it turned out to just be a littler, other type of moth. Whatever they’re called. I was about to grab my phone and snap a pic to post online, but my 33 Facebook friends probably wouldn’t be too interested. They’re mostly just my dentist office friend group. Suit yourself, moth.
“Get lost on the way to the, ummm, woods or something, little buddy,” I call out into my empty apartment where the posters are frameless and tacked to the wall.
After about an hour of watching my new roommate bang violently into a lampshade, I decided to turn off all the lights in my apartment except for the television. A lot of people don’t count the TV as a light source, but I like to conserve energy. Anyway, it’s just me. Who am I trying to impress?
Hour Five
It seems the ol’ moth and I are both keen on binging Firefly. No shame in that. Am I right?
As we reach the halfway mark for the series, I decide to sneak away for a bathroom break. I leave the door open so I can keep an eye on my new roommate. It’s weird. Living alone, I’ve never had to consider closing the bathroom door while I go.
I guess you don’t know what barriers exist until they present themselves. I guess you don’t know you need them, or don’t, until they’re presented. I guess we’ve broken down that boundary in our relationship, moth.
Squad goals, right?
Hour Ten
After realizing that the moth had taken a shine to the clump of dirty laundry that serves as a mainstay/blanket on my living room floor, I’ve piled all of my woolens in that general vicinity as a sort of welcome. He doesn’t immediately go for the clothes, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before a moth gets hungry.
“Eat up, buddy. You need it more than I do.”
Hour 15
After staying up all night, I decided to call in sick to work. They didn’t sound too concerned, but I know they can’t last too long without me. Who else is going to sort all of the paint swatches if I’m not there? Cool to warm, I always say. Dark to light.
Not that they listen.
I hear the familiar creak of the floorboards as my heavy-footed mail carrier approaches the door. Same time as always. Except those lonesome Sundays.
Mail carriers these days, they’re always on the phone with someone. Who? Who is always there for them?
“Best let him know that there’s a new resident at the Chez Jerry, right buddy?” I call out to my new dusty-winged pal.
With a tattered terrycloth bathrobe hastily pulled around my midsection, I whip open my front door as the mailman attempts to quietly pass the day’s correspondence through the slot.
“What’s up, my man?” I shout in a wild-eyed fervor. “Good news, I hope.”
The mailman, a tan 24-year-old with earphone cables running into his pocketed cellphone, rights himself from a crouch and responds, “Yeah, I’m gonna have to let you go” before ending his current call. “How are you today, sir?”
“Oh, I’m good, but as you can see I’ve got a full house,” I respond before wildly gesturing to the moth in the opposite corner of the apartment.
“Oh. Right. Yeah,” the mailman answers before crouching down once again to place the letters at the threshold of my home and slowly backing away.
I watch with a smile as he disappears downstairs, wishing, as always, that he’d stay longer to chat. Gabbing on the phone his entire route. He must need someone to talk to. Like, really talk to.
Checking the mail, I find nothing but offers for more magazine subscriptions. It’ll take me hours to respond to all of these individually, but at least I can try out my new stationary.
Stepping back into my apartment and pulling the door behind me, I toss the day’s correspondence onto the woolen nest that has become my makeshift bed. Perhaps if I rest there long enough, I’ll emerge as one of you, little moth. Your grace will be mine. With your wings, I’ll rise above it all.
Watching you flutter toward the sunlight creeping through the window blind, I take a seat among the dirty pile of towels and sweaters situated in the floor. Ripping apart the day’s mail, I run my tongue across every sheet of paper inside until they are wet enough to plaster against my frame. I am building a cocoon. I am becoming. I will moth myself, as you surely must have, oh so many seasons ago.
You are drawn to the brightness, moth brother, but you have shown me the light. Please await my rebirth. I don’t know the way.
