Before the Weight Can Leave the Air
There's a problem, feathers iron
Bargain buildings, weights and pullies
Feathers hit the ground before the weight can leave the air
Buy the sky and sell the sky and tell the sky and tell the sky
Don't fall on me
-- R.E.M.
Elijah sits in his apartment, watching the evening shade down from grey into black, until the view from his (admittedly magnificent) windows is nothing more than an indistinct field of artificial stars glowing in a dark field. Every light is a life, somehow—a car's headlights going down the street, someone wanting to get home, possibly because someone's waiting for them, cooking dinner-- got to hurry, she'll be mad if the roast gets cold-- the twinkling lights of houses, stationary, beacons.
He knows that's naïve—no reason to think that way. Some of the lights are probably houses where the only thing for dinner is boxed macaroni and there's little, if any, candle-glow warmth. But it's a nice illusion to torture himself with, regardless.
No, his apartment is lovely, even if it's a testament to modern bachelor style. The pieces are well chosen, sleek leather couch, teak coffee table, the light fixtures Dom grabbed from Futurama. Like little pod people, yeah?, he'd said, as if that was a sterling reason for installing them.
Every bit, in fact, tells a story. Elijah takes another huge swallow of Grey Goose from his favorite coffee mug (the Far Side, "Cat Fud", he fucking can't stand cats, sympathizes with the dog trying to lure the hapless feline in, because that's what dogs do, it's what they should do, man, fucking useless cats), forgetting and remembering where it came from at the same time.
What would an archeologist make of this room? Or a crime scene investigator? Elijah thinks those are interesting questions, but it's only a distraction. He's not going to get up off the couch and look closer. Besides, what would be the point? The dent in the floor where Dom dropped his barbell isn't going to fill up by any effort of his. The grass-and-chalk smell of Dom's skin will continue to fade from his sheets whether he rails against it or not. The hole in the wall by the door, decidedly inelegant, hardly chic, is going to take a serious application of spackle. Or something. He's not really sure.
Another swallow, cold burn, and Elijah's hoping for oblivion, because oblivion is what you're supposed to hope for at a time like this, but in some ways he's just going through the motions, following the blueprint. This is what you do now. Strange, he thinks, how the blueprint for him is pretty much the same as for the guy whose light burns like a tiny, self-immolating bug in his window, a million miles away in his little one bedroom crappy ranch.
Sit. Exist. Occupy the space, now empty except for his own pulse and air and decompositions.
Through nightcold glass, one by one, the lights eventually go out. Not all of them, but most. Of those left, Elijah wonders if they're waiting in vain for a knock on the door. Probably not. Most likely, they're just conscientious. Leave a light on, it's safer.
Except every light in his apartment is on, and there's nothing safe about the way the light burns into the corners, and he never would have thought it would matter so much that when he gets up to make his way at last to the bed that there's only one shadow draping like feathers across the wall.
But it does.
End.
