For the Doubting Thomases out there (minor aside: Doubting Thomas is a biblical reference, who knew? Thomas the Apostle. I learn something every day.), the universe has given Boyfriend and I clues that we do fit together. Either he and I have some crazy imaginary network of synapses that connect our brains or we're both the same kind of off-kilter. I'm cool with either...unless imaginary synapses have the capacity to be affected by brain damage. I'll need a helmet in that case.
For some reason that the world cannot grasp, telephone books are still distributed by the city every year. Unless you're a strongman from the 1980s whose parlour trick is ripping them in half, there is no reason on the planet to still have one of these cement blocks in your house. Yet, the city persists in gifting these monsters to us every year. I use them as portable steps to reach the cupboard over the fridge. We can officially call off the search, I found my martini glasses. Yes, thank God for those damn books. I don't actually know what we do with ours. I feel like I leave ours with the pile of newspapers in the lobby. Moving on. Our apartment manager, the vandal that he is, always leaves those huge mothers right in front of our doors where this ol' gal trips over them in the morning during the daily rush to work. Starting off the morning with an ungraceful face plant is not my idea of a good time. It turns out, however, that my idea of a good time is rather asinine.
One of the apartments in the hallway was clearly vacant, as their big ol' telephone directory hung outside their door for many days. I got a brilliant idea that struck me as great fun for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself. The next time I pass that sad book laying face up on the carpet, I prop it up against the door. On the following trip down the hall I move it back down to the floor and open it up to expose the pages. The trend goes on, every time I pass by the book gets rearranged. It satisfies the crazy in my head. I don't tell Boyfriend about this. He couldn't be more judgemental if he wore a powdered wig and carried a gavel. A couple days into the fun, the telephone book is sloppily balanced on the edges of the pages, the spine lifting upward as though the book is making an attempt to crawl away from the daily abuse. I did not leave it like that. My back groans as I pick the book up and delicately balance it on the doorknob. Leaving the apartment a little while later I notice that the fat directory is now on the ground casually leaning against the door frame, as though it has been waiting for me to show up again.
Strange. The whole thing finally begins to strike me as especially funny since I'm not the only loser getting a kick out of displaying the phone book like a mannequin. Eventually, the creativity on the sides of both myself and my secret opponent wane, reaching expiration one day after work when I saunter by and the book has completed its final illusion. The great disappearing act. I shuffle along, a touch melancholy because this game (that isn't a game) is over. Well, we had a good run. I slump in the desk chair when I get inside our place.
What's wrong with you? (Boyfriend finally dares ask the question when the bomb squad has assessed the situation and given him the go-ahead)
Nothing. (Woman answer)
Doesn't seem like nothing.
Well, I know if I tell you you'll think I'm stupid.
I would never think you're stupid.
Oh please. We both think the other one is stupid all the time.
True. What's up?
Well there was this phone book down the hall... (I can't look at him while I start, but then get rudely interrupted, as is his way)
That was you?
Not just me! (Since I'm a woman I get overly defensive here for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself)
I didn't want to tell you that I was moving that book. I thought you'd think I was dumb.
You are dumb. But I'm dumb too.
I fell in love with him all over again that day. Okay, that might be subject to hyperbole. It's just nice to know that I'm not the only fool living in the confines of these walls. Besides, by the next night balance was restored as I threatened his life for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself.
Time for tea,
K
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