English Assignment
Washing Down
Quietly within the distance from my retinas to the inside of my eyelids shakes a familiar reminder to operate. It calls me out of synapse and pulls me stumbling six feet through the hallway closet space. So there I am, surrounded in linoleum and draining out the night. Luke water, getting out of pool sensation, beige towel. I’m backwards down the closet tunnel, then in front of an espresso brown Target shopper’s TV-tray, the unelected acting nightstand. I select the orange bottle with the blue inside, and left thumb down on the orange tab, right hand squeeze the white cap and twist. Fishing out with an index finger one oblong capsule, I process another breath of inertia and store the thing under my tongue for a trip to the fridge. Out the active half of the stark double bedroom doors, traversing around the glass top, bamboo wrapped, iron rod dinette, and past heaping failures in tidiness, is fifteen seconds. I am opening the refrigerator door. Apparently in the South, you can get away with calling something apple cider, when in actuality, it’s simply apple juice. We have orchards where I come from, and we make cider. It’s one lie washing down another, ramping downward to await dissolve. So sets the pattern for the next twelve hours of extended release. In six or so, I’ll send in reinforcements.
It’s ten steps back to the bedroom to grab a pack. Another ten follows through a collection of furniture poised around electronics, to the glass screen door. The blinds are a busted marionette, with a thin ball-chain for swivel, and a white cord to part. It imitates an off Broadway long since its peak performance, worn out from a series of vulgar audiences. A few of the players miss their lines, and the choreography is always out of step. The glass takes its cue, the screen follows suit, they return to form and begin the intermission. My teeth pull out a straw filled with the addicted betrayal of my health and wisdom. I take man’s finest discovery, stuffed into a plastic button, bring it to the end and flick the trigger. It’s an inhalation of a washing down. I’m sitting in a royal blue plastic lawn chair, burning it down in front of a lurching bustle of golf cart assisted afternoon maintenance. My scope slits around between drags, and after a few minutes of leg shifting, I suck down to an 8th inch away from the blue stripe at the filter, and diffuse the stick in a keepsake gypsy ceramic. The porch door finishes the second act, and I retreat to the instant comforts of modernity for a repeat introduction.
Quietly within the distance from my retinas to the inside of my eyelids shakes a familiar reminder to operate. It calls me out of synapse and pulls me stumbling six feet through the hallway closet space. So there I am, surrounded in linoleum and draining out the night. Luke water, getting out of pool sensation, beige towel. I’m backwards down the closet tunnel, then in front of an espresso brown Target shopper’s TV-tray, the unelected acting nightstand. I select the orange bottle with the blue inside, and left thumb down on the orange tab, right hand squeeze the white cap and twist. Fishing out with an index finger one oblong capsule, I process another breath of inertia and store the thing under my tongue for a trip to the fridge. Out the active half of the stark double bedroom doors, traversing around the glass top, bamboo wrapped, iron rod dinette, and past heaping failures in tidiness, is fifteen seconds. I am opening the refrigerator door. Apparently in the South, you can get away with calling something apple cider, when in actuality, it’s simply apple juice. We have orchards where I come from, and we make cider. It’s one lie washing down another, ramping downward to await dissolve. So sets the pattern for the next twelve hours of extended release. In six or so, I’ll send in reinforcements.
It’s ten steps back to the bedroom to grab a pack. Another ten follows through a collection of furniture poised around electronics, to the glass screen door. The blinds are a busted marionette, with a thin ball-chain for swivel, and a white cord to part. It imitates an off Broadway long since its peak performance, worn out from a series of vulgar audiences. A few of the players miss their lines, and the choreography is always out of step. The glass takes its cue, the screen follows suit, they return to form and begin the intermission. My teeth pull out a straw filled with the addicted betrayal of my health and wisdom. I take man’s finest discovery, stuffed into a plastic button, bring it to the end and flick the trigger. It’s an inhalation of a washing down. I’m sitting in a royal blue plastic lawn chair, burning it down in front of a lurching bustle of golf cart assisted afternoon maintenance. My scope slits around between drags, and after a few minutes of leg shifting, I suck down to an 8th inch away from the blue stripe at the filter, and diffuse the stick in a keepsake gypsy ceramic. The porch door finishes the second act, and I retreat to the instant comforts of modernity for a repeat introduction.