Four years waiting for Change and then one day, It knocked politely, but I was lackadaisical getting to the door. I always am, taking the knuckles of any egg-less neighbor or soul-saving missionary or Pest Control Specialist as intrusive, punishable. What good was having a door if people knocked on it? “Just a minute!” I called, but it was longer than I thought to put my robe (floor-length, satin, emerald green) on, run my fingertips over my eyebrows, hum to the cat, “No pouncing, understood?” and by the time I swung the thing open, Change was in the front gardens, doubting if they’d actually heard my voice, to begin with, wondering if I was even home at all.
Then we introduced ourselves and They were callous, impatient, a little off. Most importantly, they laughed at none of my jokes—not even a polite release of air! They spoke out loud in riddles (not unlike psychosis) and showed no regard, for me. It was so hot outside that it pissed me off—July’ll do that to you, bare feet blistering on the sidewalk, and then here comes some idiot, walking their dog, searing their little paw prints onto the cement, and when’s the last time the thing was groomed, anyway? Jesus Christ. The world is burning.—and so I spun around like someone in love with you but decidedly done with a fight, stomped back inside. “How I’ve been waiting for you all this time, and when you show up, you’re late and you’re weird and you’re rude!” The slam of the door. Arms crossed. Crying all of my makeup off.
Finally, Change knocked again. I don’t let Them in. Without even pretending to wait, change leaves—the most grievous offense. Prickled with pride, I think, “Everyone in the world is always mad at me, all of the time,” and I don’t wait for them to come back, until, finally, of course, I do. I had resolved to never find myself longing again, tense, pulling at threads of my clothes by the front door. But here I am, sighing at the clock above the oven, trying not to cry and getting furiously morose when I give myself permission and am unable to. Weakly, quietly, I wonder,“What hotel are you staying at?” “Are you even still in town?”
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