small memories/tiny morsels
...petites bouchées
I wondered if all psychiatrists live in such filth. His apartment was tiny with details that were beautiful if you looked hard enough - the doorknobs that were cool to the touch in the palm of your hand and rattled in a pleasant way, the creaky wooden floors and even the peeling bits of paint around the flimsy window panes. The kitchen only had enough space for one person. He had almost no furniture and his bed was a futon that was laid out in the middle of the floor. There was a thin sheet as a blanket. His pillows looked wilted and sad- like there was no more life in them. He had a tiny table in the kitchen area with two folding chairs. There was one bookshelf. There were papers haphazardly placed everywhere. A thin film of dust covered everything. He had one dim lamp. But there was something cosy and well-lived in about it. There was something that felt safe.
He wanted to make me sushi but the avocado he chose was completely unripe. It felt like a baseball in my hand. He asked me if I could slice it up and he handed me something equivalent to a butter knife. I looked at it for a minute, not knowing what to do. I asked if he had a cutting board. He thought about it for a moment and rummaged through drawers and looked into his kitchen cabinet. His kitchen cabinets were missing their doors and instead of plates and bowls and cups, there were random loose leaf papers and other miscellaneous items tucked away in each shelf. I was in awe of his disaster of a kitchen. He had one bowl, two plates and maybe one cup. The cup was actually an old glass beaker with the mL measurements worn off on the side. I wondered what I was really doing there. He handed me a slab of circular wood.
"Use this"