In That Order

I cleaned the apartment for you. Took out the cups, glasses, plates, and teaspoons. In that order.

I bought a book, something good, something that reminds me of you, for fourteen zlotys, new, with a slightly naughty cover. Just don't show it to your mother.

Today in therapy I spoke only of us, but don't think I'm mad with love. I talked only of Jasiek and his troubles, but I was speaking all the time about us.

In the therapist's office, you can't see what I'm wearing, nor the nudity, unfortunately. You can't see how I struggle. You see only how hard I breathe. And I haven't smoked for twenty-one months. Neither disposables nor reusables.

I wiped the table. Got rid of the stale cottage cheese. Just wondered if a cow died for all those cottage cheeses I threw out.

Hoping you'd tell me that a cow is worth less. That I'm worth three cow lives, three pig lives, and a dozen partridges.

Though I don't know if it's egocentric or not, because in your place I'd expect a comparison for myself. That you're worth a heap of minks, and a dozen dozen foxes, and fourteen ducks, or fourteen free-range chickens.

I'll make you dumplings. I'll make them for you, not for me, for I've already eaten and am full. I don't want to get better, I want to be sated. I don't want to be faster, I want to walk at a leisurely pace through a half marathon.

When I burned myself, I thought I'd burn again. Whatever that means.

I also thought that love is such a public thing, that it's probably normal, probably informal. And I'm not embarrassed when no one loves me at this second. It manifests in an empty and silent apartment. Or perhaps the other way around—that an empty and silent apartment isn't something natural, isn't something pure, isn't something I'd want.

But I'll finish this job. I'll wash the floor next, for I already feel the sand under my feet, as if I were on a beach. And I don't like sandy beaches.