she watched the towers burn.
from that tiny kitchen television, she had been
smoking and writing, like a proper sylvia Plath. stupid tiny t.v. from the
eighties. she hated it. the rejection letters from publishers graced the walls like family photographs. he hated that, how she hung them for everyone to see. he would say "have some shame, don't announce it to the world" and she was laugh, cry for a few hours and tape another one up. She had a bad habit of sleeping all day and it was sheer
that she was up when the alarms went off. when the news reporters called her attention from two rooms over. an accident, a plane and a fire. an explosion, a tragedy. the death toll had already hit hundreds, the city was in flames and he was inside of it all.
she collapsed onto the floor but instead of tears came only the annoying feel of dust digging into her knees. the television blared, trying to scream her into devastation. his briefcase, his occasionally soft hands and his stupid eyes. his ignorant eyes. she'd always wished for more art in him, more passion, more desire. no, he was content with a neatly stacked desk and a picture of her forced smile. he was content with a long island commute while she always longed for brooklyn. on that floor hours later, still posed with her back arched towards the ground, she supposed it was the position to assume. as if cursing Hell, cursing the hardwood floors. the towers, gone. him, gone. what had flipped? how had reality inverted itself so quickly. him, gone. his sometimes affectionate smile, his straight spine and white teeth. his boringness, his chains. gone. and very suddenly, out of nowhere, the world felt open, the world felt as if it cracked down the center like a
and inside, the glint of something loud and bright and wonderful . she saw brooklyn, she saw a forest. and it hit her, the story of a lifetime, the words of a thousand poets- an epiphany of literature. she would write a masterpiece and as she ran to her typewriter the eighties
caught her eye with firemen and hoses and the story was gone. the only words she found that she could spare were
"sometimes the boat has to sink"
and she stilled, as the lock on the door hears a fidget. a scraping key, a terrible realization. he comes running inside, eyes all wide with panic and soot on his jacket. she falls into his stupid business arms once again, she falls into her old life. forces joy on herself, thanks the deities and cries with him. and theres something odd about the way that all she can think about is the dust on the floor. later, she locks herself in the bathroom and promptly bleeds out the fire buildings, bleeds out her old life.