< Writing


Takeout and the Red Door

Was there a movie or a book where two lovers move into a house together and there’s no furniture yet, and they’re sitting on the floor, with only a few candles, having takeout on their first night in their new idea of forever?

This scene plays in my head when I think of real love. That takeout on the floor moment- where there’s nothing but excitement and the idea that this is where the story begins.

Oh there’s love, so much love. So much, in fact, that it truly doesn’t matter that there’s nowhere to sit or that the lights don’t work yet. It’s a perfect thing. It’s a hardwood floor.

A psychic once told me that my life would begin when I walked through a red door with gold numbers on it. I still haven’t seen this door. Did she know what she was doing to me then? Setting me up like this? Coloring so much time wasted? Or maybe I missed it and I’ve been living this whole time.

I wonder if the takeout moment is the moment behind the red door with the gold numbers on it.

I’ve lived with a few people in a few new places. It’s never like this.

I wonder if it’s a premonition. I wonder if I shouldn’t stop falling in love and moving in with people until it happens. I can even picture the exact room. The crown moulding. A deep crimson red wall. Ancient wiring strung across the tall ceiling- forgotten, out of reach.

Or perhaps the incinerator which cremates me will have bright red handles, like the ones that lock on an airplane's emergency exit, and displaying in gold will be the temperature rising on a digital screen.

And I’lll be the thing that gets delivered in a box.