Bam! She punched a hole in the wall. Bam! Another hole. She had lived there for one year to the day, which she knew because the page from the calendar that she had ripped off on her way out of her old place was taped to the wall just between the two holes. Bam! She punched a picture of the friend she had lived with in the old place, Kelly, who had converted to a lover too quickly for comfort. Bam! She punched a drawing of her mentor, Bell, a composer and painter who had always-wise things to say about how history was implicitly a digestion of grief but who had passed away when she needed him the most. Bam! She punched one of Bell’s paintings, a cross-section of two rooms in a house, one filled with life, the other bare and cold. She was in one of those rooms, both of them, none of them. Bam! Bam! Bam! She punched her own thoughts’ lights out.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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