In an antique shop that doesn’t belong here or anywhere
There in one feeble glass case that looks like it will surely shatter and collapse to the floor when I touch it with the pad of my finger
Are the relics of some woman’s jewelry case coated in a thick layer of dust
A locket that can’t open anymore with a tarnished silver chain a pair of silver earrings that are cemented to their backs a bracelet with broken pink painted beads a wedding ring and its pair
And it tells a story that I was never supposed to know, and suddenly I am looking in on something I was not supposed to see
How did he kick the bucket, why did he run, why did he leave her with the ring
I am painfully out of place in this antique shop that is so full of lives that are not mine to barge in on
So why can’t I stop looking in
And stop rifling through their jewelry boxes and their daughters’ old dollhouse full of barbies with promiscuously altered frocks and a worn set of golf clubs that have been used with boundless enthusiasm but not with skill and a corner table with one leg gnawed on by a great big dog
If you listen in close enough to this junk you can almost hear its owners
And like any chronic snoop
My disgust at sifting through these things is not outweighed by my loneliness
It is when I am here in the lake, shallow enough still that my face never dips below the surface
But deep enough to kick off the sandy pebbled floor and swim
That I don’t feel the twang of guilt that comes with peering into the lives of others from the periphery like an intruder
I take one gulp of air, one look at the towering pines and purple-blue mountains that surround and plunge in
Dead man’s float-
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The water is so clear that I can see my hair spiraling out like kelp
Bouncing in my face and half obscuring my vision
Four yellow paws paddling behind me
And down here it’s just me, there’s nothing to peek in on, no stories to invent, no drawers and displays to snoop through
I realize
It is hard to feel out of place somewhere that nobody belongs
And I come up for air and the water has cut the noise
Because on the flip side everything is loud again with an unspoken contest on who blends in here the best
So I swallow air and take the plunge for the second time
But it is only a matter of time before I am in these houses
with a smattering of red plastic cups on a hastily painted table filled with cheap vodka diluted by some stale mixer
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Someone nurses them all night taking small sips like they are a fine wine paid for by the glass
Until they are with company
And then gulps become exaggerated and ugly and go down with a burn but not the good kind
And the table with peeling paint and cigarette shaped burns is littered with fat burritos
Packed to the brim, starting to ooze and become too warm to eat but too untouched to toss until the next morning when it becomes a fossil from a night better forgotten
And I’m left wondering how I got here
In these rooms that smell like single-use cotton shirts soaked with sweat and smoke
Where a song disguised by a reverberating electro-pop beat and a cacophony of roguishly played drums shakes the floor
And drowns out hushed whispers and half-hidden giggling fits shared between the flocks that push their way brashly into the heart of the crowd
I am careful not to brush any shoulders too forcefully
Or touch a hand in a pitch dark room
Or step on the floor littered with shards of green white and brown shattered glass like a chapel window masterpiece
They crunch and they crackle over the overlapping sounds of conversation about boyfriends and girls trips and the new bar downtown they won’t ID they never do
And I still don’t belong
In this room that emanates the thick humidity of a hundred different perfumes mixed together like jungle juice
But I’ll still listen in like I do