a blog about writing and reading

just like origami

It had started simply, with a few coins. A few paper arrows. A few scarves, two blankets, three pillow cases, numerous books, two and a half cracked purple piggy banks, uncountable torn dollar bills, one clock, three dolls, a stunning fourteen crumpled letters never read and never sent, four dog collars, one cat dish, a lamp, a few pieces of a bookshelf, and a quilt made by her mother.

It had started simply, but it had turned into an acervation by the black sheep of his family in his living quarters. She had started living with them almost three months ago to the day, and she had effectively taken over his space. The papers he was supposed to grade, the charts he was supposed to present at the next graduate meeting—all hidden under her coffee mugs and palettes, her knives and brushes and watercolor messes. She had begun to rule his way of thinking and the way he slept, both too little now too much, and she had brightened his life considerably by doing so.

That didn't mean he had to be thankful for it. His life had been fine before her, but now if she left on her whim—as she often did—he could not think of it without her.