It’s all flashback The last time I spent a night in a foreign bed was the Leo party, far more recent than I first assumed. I found a picture of a hotel on my flist this week, a hotel that I stopped and had to look at twice, because it was that room, that one right there, and suddenly I was inside, looking out. Standing in a corner, knowing that I was invisible when I wasn’t being looked at. Just like every other human being. I should have taken a picture, but I was too lost in everything I assumed. I’m sorry, I want to say now. I wish you had told me. I’m sorry, but I held up a mirror and now I understand. It’s always a mistake to attack Russia in the winter.
This house is a different place, dark because it’s three in the morning and it’s not usual to turn lights on at such a time, not when other people are home and presumably asleep. There’s a wreath on the door, incongruous, but telling. I’m not sure if anyone who lives here actually bothers to live here. The carpets are deeper than I’m used to, but nothing else strikes me as special. It’s the room to the right, the only brightness in the entire black hallway. Be good to him. I heard her and understand, though I don’t know what else there is to do. I’m too damaged to be anything else. I’m too in love with somebody else. Being kind requires the least amount of effort. I don’t have to think about it. We were dancing, it was loud and industrial and not very good. My mother was a belly-dancer. There’s a trampoline in the back yard. He says it’s at my disposal the same way a rich man might offer me his secondary porshe.
