cubbyhole

Sabine curled herself into a ball and thought about the cubbyhole.

Coming out of my metaphorical closet becomes more difficult each morning, not just because I have grown accustomed to sleeping in cramped spaces, but because the world seems all too cold, white, green and blue outside of the warm darkness of the cubby-hole.

�I have been sleeping on rough wooden boards for three months now and I am not a better person because of it,� she thought. �I have been sleeping without the cozy comfort of blankets and mattresses and soft feather pillows for three months now and I still cannot center myself in strange situations.�

The decision to begin sleeping in the cubbyhole came with the decision to begin meditating at midnight and again at dawn. Sabine's feet had grown rough and callused from the splintery boards and her shoulders had taken on a new curve. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and she had forgotten how to differentiate between the delicate swirls of smoke from cigarettes and the waxy thick smoke of her candles.

The floor of the cubbyhole had become saturated with wax, red, green, black and blue. Each night after climbing into her pink flannel pyjamas she would persuade her body into the tight space and close the door. She would wait in the darkness until the fragile silhouettes of her candles and her silver cigarette case introduced themselves to her eyes. The lighter always came last; played at hiding the shadows, but she would wait patiently until it presented itself.

She would turn first to the candle, the cherry orange flame licking at the burnt wick, bringing a small circle of light to warm the darkness of the cubbyhole. Then, she would turn to the cigarettes. Menthol 100�s, light, filtered, minty. The smoke would curl playfully around her head and she would inhale deeply and think about lungs.

Bronchioles blackened with time, out of sight and out of mind. The worry only came when the blackness began to come up from inside and mix with red and green, yellow sometimes. "Sometimes," Sabine ponders, "smoking is a chore. Other times it is pleasing. It is always unnecessary, but is something that is done regardless."

Puddles of wax have gathered on the jagged uneven boards of the cubbyhole. With time the puddles formed from droplets of colour, and once dry, become cool and soft to the touch.

On this particular day Sabine delighted in the thought of new candles. There would be white ones left over from Julia�s wedding. Fat white candles in pink flowery holders. She thought about them and decided to throw away the holders.

Sometimes the silvery white light from the moon would spill through her bedroom window and creep under the door of the cubbyhole. At these times she would smoke not by the intimate flickering of candles but instead by the offending light of the moon. These times felt like lying. The moonlight would splash over on to her toes and bring a smile to her lips. These kinds of things always felt like cheating. Smiles and warm hands and hot showers felt like betrayals to some great cause.

When the moon was full and brilliant and blue-white with light she would sleep not in the cubbyhole, but instead on the floor by the window.

Under the table she curled herself tighter over her thin legs and listened to the music surrounding her. The wedding guests were all completely inebriated by this time and their reserved movements of earlier in the evening had turned into drunken frolicking on the dance floor. She thought innumerable nasty thoughts to herself as she contemplated the runs in her stockings.

Suddenly, but much faster than that, there was a voice at her back. She spun around quickly, awkwardly, the taffeta of her dress filling her ears with whooshing noise. There was a boy kneeling beside her. He was dressed in a slick black tuxedo with a pink rose pinned to his stiff lapel.

He whispered to her beneath the loud music and beneath the table she felt for the first time that perhaps she was falling in love. He moved forward, kissed her aggressively, his tongue flickering gently against hers. She felt herself move up to meet him, her own internal rhythms in stride with him. She felt his arms encircle her, felt the pressure of his desire, and the surprising dampness of her own. . .

The end of the story of course, is unclear. There are swirls of smoke that muddle up the truth and fog that prevents us. In the end though, it was revealed that she began sleeping amongst the soft comfort of pillows and blankets again, as long as there were strong arms to hold her there.