'Three am', by Avis Yarbrough
The room is small. There is just enough room for a bed, a chair and
bookshelves. There is only one book on the shelves, it is Henry James
"The Golden Bowl." The walls are painted white, not the new blazing
whiteness of white like a wedding gown, but the faded whiteness of
underwear washed numerous of times. The walls are bare. The room's
door is the color of pinecones—burnished brown. I am not in this room.
It's three am and I am asleep. I am asleep in a room where the walls
are the color of a cantaloupe - a dull green, and there is a
four-drawer dresser, a television set, and a bed. I am in a room that
is made of water. Colors shimmer in the water - indigo, emerald and
yellow. I can step into the wall and take a shower. I can dive down in
the floors and swim forever, there is no bottom.
I am in a room that is the size of a brown box, where there is barely
enough room to crawl. If one were to sleep in this room, it would be
curled up on their side, knees up against your chest like a folded
chair, and arms above one’s head. One can breathe in such a room if
they know not to think too much.
I am in a room that is small, just enough room for a bed, a chair and
bookshelves. There is only one book on the shelves, Henry James "The
Golden Bowl." The room has a hardwood floor, a mattress lays on the
floor, and a man lays naked on the mattress. His black hair is spread
on the pillow beneath is head. His long, lean body rests nestled
against the white linen sheets that covers the mattress. He seems to
be sleeping deeply, and his breath rushes softly out of his slightly
parted, moist red lips. I stand and watch him sleep. I sit down and
watch him sleep. I start to talk. I tell him my name and that I am
asleep in a room that looks different from this one. I tell him five
things about myself.
1. That I like dogs better than cats.
2. That I like fruit out of a can.
3. That I like being asleep more than I like being awake.
4. That I think I am lost.
5. That I hate eating sugary cereal in the morning.
I am in a room that is so big that it has hundreds of floors that tilt
like a seesaw that you must climb onto to get from one floor to
the next. As I pass a chair it says, "Hi, I am old and heavy." A desk
calls out, "I am worth fifty dollars." A table calls out, "I am worth
two-hundred dollars." A bed says, "I am worth one-thousand dollars."
The desk, table, and chair laugh in disbelief at the bed. They reek of
smugness and knowledge that only the old has.
I am in a room where the moon is suspended in mid-air, and when I ask,
"Where does the moon go when the sun is out?" The moon answers,
"Wherever the moon wants to go." As the moon hangs in mid-air, I look
for strings. The moon is so bright that I wish I had brought
sunglasses. The moon illuminates no one, but me, for no one is in the
room but me and the moon.
I am in a room that is small, just enough room for a bed, a chair and
bookshelves. There is only one book on the shelves, Henry James "The
Golden Bowl." The room has a hardwood floor, a mattress lays on the
floors, and a man lays naked on the mattress. His black hair is spread
on the pillow beneath his head. His long, lean body rests nestle
against the white linen sheets that covers the mattress. He is awake,
and his breath rushes softly out of his slightly parted, moist red
lips. He watches me, I watch him. I start to talk. I tell him my name
and that I am asleep in a room that looks different from this one. He
says, "You have told me this before." I pause and start again. I tell
him four things:
1. That he has beautiful lips.
2. That I think something bad is about to happen.
3. That sometimes people like to repeat themselves.
4. That I like to watch him sleep.
I am in a room where there are dozens of big, shiny windows. I look
out one and it is summer in Chicago, the leaves are the color of
limes, and cucumbers. Cotton permeates the air. One leaf is engulfed
by cotton, and unable to unravel itself, the leaf starts to shrivel,
it is dying from a lack of oxygen. I pound on the window, trying to
save the leaf but the window is unbreakable. I feel sad, before I
remind myself that it is only a leaf.
I am in a room where my eyes are closed and the guy with the moist red
lips whispers in my ear, "Why do you like dogs better than cats? Fruit
out of a can is unhealthy, and I do not like Henry James." I wonder
how he knows I like Henry James.
I am in a room where it is winter, and there is ten inches of snow on
the floor and it continues to climb. The furniture is buried beneath
the snow. So, I can barely hear the furniture when it says, "I am
cold." I fall on my back, opening and closing my legs, flapping my
arms, making a snowman. The snow melts, it is summer and now ninety
degrees. The humidity makes me break out in a sweat. The furniture,
now that the snow had melted, is dry and says, "I am hot." It starts
to rain, a cool breeze enters the room. It starts to drizzle, then
pours, then drizzle again. The furniture and I are drenched. The
furniture says, "I want an umbrella." I am sick of talking furniture.
I am in a room where the man is making love to another woman. He is on
top, she is on the bottom. I sit in the corner and watch them.
I say to him, "Why don't you like Henry James?"
He says, "He takes too long to get to the point."
The woman starts to pant, then moan, and then groan. I am bored and
think of other things.
I am in a room with hundreds of people, and there is barely any room
to move. I wish that they will go away, and they do. I am lonely and I
wish for the man to appear again. He appears.
I say to him, "Talk to me."
He says, "I will tell you five things about myself, but you must
choose whether or not you want me to tell you five things about myself
that are true or five things about myself that are false."
I say, "Both."
He says, "You can only pick one."
I say, "It is my dream."
He says, " I will tell you both, but you have to figure out which five
things are the truth, and which five things are the lies.
I nod my head in agreement.
He says, "The first five are:
1. I miss you
2. I hate eggs.
3. I like Henry James too.
4. I will never lie to you.
5. That woman you saw me making love with means nothing to me.
He then says, "The next five are:
1. I don't miss you.
2. I love eggs.
3. I dislike Henry James
4. I like dogs better than cats too.
5. That woman you saw me making love with means everything to me.
I say, "The first one is true, the second one is the lie," but the man
is gone unable to confirm or deny whether or not I am right or wrong.
I am in a room that is small, just enough room for a bed, a chair, and
bookshelves. There is only one book on the shelves, Henry James
"Portrait of a Lady." The room has a bed, the man lays on the bed. I
walk over to the bed and lay down beside the man. I tell him about
all the rooms I have seen. I tell him that he is a liar, but I don't
care.
He asks, "Do I forgive him?"
I say, "Yes," almost sure that I am telling the truth.