(no subject)
Wallpaper
His bones were slick; he couldn't keep meat on them.
"Do you think this is a pattern?" asked Will.
Inside the subway car, around the ads and benches on the wall, were dots of mostly blues and some purples and a few other unnoticeable colors printed in some seemingly digital (but frenzied) manner. You didn't think of the walls, or look at them, so you’d look at the ads-proclamations from William, whose finger pressed into its surface like a wet noodle
“Someone must have designed all this. Probably is a pattern. I doubt we have a computer putting random dots like this on a spreadsheet and sending it through the printer. Can you imagine? The cost and time? And the psychology of wallpaper…who knew it contained such insane depths!”
He coughed a careless few laughs and repositioned himself against the seatback. Will silently lolled his eyes against the opposing wall’s contours.
“Think of the things we don’t notice. Things meant to be invisible. The real meaning of ads, secret societies. Those are the dangerous things. The part of the wall nobody will notice.”
When the train stopped Will was holding his hand. They walked past the single standing apartment buildings along the street-a few kids were standing there, playing with a large dog on the summer resonant sidewalk-and Will was crying alone. He wiped his eyes. The dog was bigger than them and it looked fierce and wincingly at the passers on the sidewalk. The front of the buildings matched the color and oblivious texture of the sidewalk and the gutter of the street, which was sunken in trash and brown leaves.
Inside their home they ate saltines and cheese and Will cooked some vegetables. Will turned around, but he was in the bathroom and the door was closed. He didn't come out for dinner.
Will woke up the next morning and made some calls. He wasn’t alone. A few friends had come over early. Everyone was sort of happy and the outside light made the living room light and free.
Later, when they had gone, Will took out the papers and laid them out like fabrics on the table. He didn't even know what letters and numbers to fill in. So he left them spread and went for a walk and came back to the papers filled in and packaged them up in a bright envelope and thought about mailing them right away.
The next morning his parents came and Will met them for the first time. It wasn't that awkward.
They went out that night to a restaurant none of them had ever been to before. They spent well over what they needed to spend, but no one complained.
The next week was filled with more friends, some of the same ones. The papers were sent at some point. Wine was poured out each morning. They recycled the bottles at the end of the week.
His bones were slick; he couldn't keep meat on them.
"Do you think this is a pattern?" asked Will.
Inside the subway car, around the ads and benches on the wall, were dots of mostly blues and some purples and a few other unnoticeable colors printed in some seemingly digital (but frenzied) manner. You didn't think of the walls, or look at them, so you’d look at the ads-proclamations from William, whose finger pressed into its surface like a wet noodle
“Someone must have designed all this. Probably is a pattern. I doubt we have a computer putting random dots like this on a spreadsheet and sending it through the printer. Can you imagine? The cost and time? And the psychology of wallpaper…who knew it contained such insane depths!”
He coughed a careless few laughs and repositioned himself against the seatback. Will silently lolled his eyes against the opposing wall’s contours.
“Think of the things we don’t notice. Things meant to be invisible. The real meaning of ads, secret societies. Those are the dangerous things. The part of the wall nobody will notice.”
When the train stopped Will was holding his hand. They walked past the single standing apartment buildings along the street-a few kids were standing there, playing with a large dog on the summer resonant sidewalk-and Will was crying alone. He wiped his eyes. The dog was bigger than them and it looked fierce and wincingly at the passers on the sidewalk. The front of the buildings matched the color and oblivious texture of the sidewalk and the gutter of the street, which was sunken in trash and brown leaves.
Inside their home they ate saltines and cheese and Will cooked some vegetables. Will turned around, but he was in the bathroom and the door was closed. He didn't come out for dinner.
Will woke up the next morning and made some calls. He wasn’t alone. A few friends had come over early. Everyone was sort of happy and the outside light made the living room light and free.
Later, when they had gone, Will took out the papers and laid them out like fabrics on the table. He didn't even know what letters and numbers to fill in. So he left them spread and went for a walk and came back to the papers filled in and packaged them up in a bright envelope and thought about mailing them right away.
The next morning his parents came and Will met them for the first time. It wasn't that awkward.
They went out that night to a restaurant none of them had ever been to before. They spent well over what they needed to spend, but no one complained.
The next week was filled with more friends, some of the same ones. The papers were sent at some point. Wine was poured out each morning. They recycled the bottles at the end of the week.