Curtains and Clementines
Curtains and Clementines curtains stories
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edenashley
edenashley Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
"We only talked twice, at the bodega across the street. It was more nodding than actual talking, but I’m not here to complain. I got eggs, she got Mentos and cigarettes. A perfect match. We could’ve been a perfect match too, but for now, the only thing we have in common is a big green dumpster. We never take the trash out at the same time. While I take it when it’s full, she takes it on her way out, full or not."

Because neighbours are all we've got these days.

Curtains and Clementines

Dimmed lights are peeping behind the curtains. I'm not sure what are they trying to conceal if the sun still gets its way-in every morning, and the moon shines all night.

Sheer curtains, this is how they called. Or as I like to call them - not-so-curtains-at-all. But, I'm not a curtain-sewer, so what do I know? I remember the day I went over to buy them.

The saleswoman was kind, and she told me her husband makes those himself and she is.. she sells them, obviously.

Even back then, it felt like some sort of a sales-trick and up until now, whenever I'm staring at my not-so-curtains-at-all,

I can't stop thinking about the fabric factory in India who have made those, while the cows mooed, and the spiced-chai was ready to be served.

The balcony across my window belongs to two roommates. The first one is a girl, who wears glasses and has an insipid boyfriend since forever.

They're so alike, that whenever they're together I'm debating whether I need to wear glasses myself.

And there is this other girl, who I know she's single and dates only once in a while, nothing too serious. Not so long ago, I saw her hanging with some basic guy at their balcony.

He was definitely interested, but something in her expression seemed off. And then she threw up, straight into her magenta flowerpot. The guy didn't stay long, neither does the pot.

Her curtains are way brighter than mine, but somehow doing a better job concealing. She leaves it half-open-half-closed.

What does that even mean? Anyway, it's nice to watch her through the half-open gap. Sometimes she dances in front of the mirror and sometimes she grooms her eyebrows.

Sometimes she talks on the phone while stretching. She never changes her clothes for that, she stays in her pajamas.

Like her curtains, her pajamas are not quite decisive: Long-sleeved shirt and shorts, what does that even mean? Perhaps she likes staring at her knees.

We only talked twice, at the bodega across the street. It was more nodding than actual talking, but I'm not here to complain. I got eggs, she got Mentos and cigarettes. A perfect match.

We could've been a perfect match too, but for now, the only thing we have in common is a big green dumpster. We never take the trash out at the same time.

While I take it when it's full, she takes it on her way out, full or not.

Now, she sits on her balcony, wearing a floral print kimono. The magenta flowerpot is replaced by new pots, that she hasn't thrown up in yet.

Tiny light bulbs are delicately illuminating her rural sanctuary. One of them is set right above her head, making her look like the mature version of Tinkerbell.

One of the other light bulbs is flickering but she doesn't seem to notice. I wonder what is that she listens to.

Does she listen to what she really likes? Or does she listen to what she wants others to believe she likes? Or maybe there nothing on and she's just wearing her headphones?

I do it sometimes, mostly because I loathe my earlobes.

But then she gets inside. The limited amount of time I had with her was extra-limited today. After a long minute, I decided to give up and head to the kitchen, my dinner won't be done by itself.

But then she's back. With a clementine, or a mandarin or something else citrusy. She surely was this kind of girl who eats fruit only when her mother bothered to peel them for her.

Window ajar, I'm prying after her next moves, trying to smell the fruity odor.

She begins to peel it gently, caressing it between each small piece she draws until she strips a big chunk, tearing it from within. Then, she spreads it in two.

I can tell she had learned how to peel by herself just lately.

It's been two weeks since I started leaving my curtains half-open-half-closed, hoping she'll notice. But whenever I checked, she wasn't.

The appetite for everything that is not a clementine feels like an unwritten history. Without further thinking, I find myself in the bodega with two clementines in my hands.

Back in my apartment, I use a knife to pierce the clementine slit by slit, then going back to sit by the window. While thinking about her, I'm counting the seeds that piled up in my mouth.

If I only had a pot, I would spit them all into it and sow them until I grow a clementine tree for her. This way, we would have something in common- Clementines.

Then I wonder, if I will move my curtains, and she will move hers - will we have something else in common?

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