by Julia Nimchuk
When I walk down the street, I’m acutely aware of the clench in my jaw, the tension in my brow, the pout of my lip. If a stray hair falls onto my face as a man with a wandering gaze approaches, I leave it. If I’d like to lick my lips I keep them dry. I wouldn’t want him to think I was adjusting myself for his benefit.
I overthink how I walk. I instinctually land on a locked knee which causes my hips, which are ideal for bearing children, to sway back and forth with a bit too much gusto. I would not like to have children. I find myself fixing my step sometimes, landing on a soft knee, and it feels like I’m charging at something, like a bull. Not because I think I am fat, which I do, but because I might be compensating for the fact that I do not know for certain where I might be going. If I do, then I’m uncertain about how to get there. I do have an idea, a thought. It depends on my mood, my clothes, my inbox, the traffic, the news.
I look down during the day and think I could have dressed myself better. I should have worn those boots, those socks, that sweater. How stupid was I to think these went together? Why didn’t I lint roll my pants before I left? How could I not have seen the cat’s fur on my jeans?
It’s because my apartment is dark. I can’t check the weather by looking outside, but I can tell you what my neighbors look like naked. I have to open my window wide enough to stick my head out and look upward and east, to the sliver of sky I get beyond the high-rise buildings on Central Park West. It’s the only way I know for sure whether or not to bring my sunglasses. Of course, I usually pick the wrong ones.
I found my apartment after searching for a year. “I’m neurotic,” I joke to anyone who will listen, “and it’s part of my charm.” (Neurotic to me sounds less damning than controlling. I’m unsure why. Neurotic sounds like Jerry Seinfeld and controlling sounds like my mother. Maybe that’s why.) The apartment is good for many reasons. Mostly because it’s mine. I live alone. I own it. It’s mine. It’s close to Central Park, it has a big closet, it has a dishwasher. It is also bad for many reasons. I have little counter space. The cabinets don’t match. There is no central air. When I lean back on the toilet, it leaks for some reason. I can hear when my neighbors flush and they can hear me having sex. Is my sex life just another performance?
Then there are things I like about my apartment that maybe I shouldn’t. I like the old floors that sometimes give me splinters. They remind me of the floors I grew up with. I like the whistling of the radiator. I like hearing water rush through the pipes, as if the building itself is alive and breathing. I like hearing the elevator ding from my living room, so I can always greet my food delivery person expeditiously. I like that my stove is bigger than it should be. I’ve never used the fifth burner, but I feel safe having it as an option. The elevator is slow, but I can take the stairs to the second floor. I feel bad for my neighbors with old knees and little patience.
My mother tells me I should fix the water damage behind my radiator, because of mold or asbestos. It’s more urgent that I acquire more bookshelves and maybe some wallpaper. My mother tells me I should get screens for my windows so bugs won’t get in. I should get screens but only so my cat won’t escape. The bugs don’t bother me. They give my cat something to do during the day. I leave the windows slightly ajar to combat the heat from my non-adjustable radiator.
The lever in my toilet tank is rusted and broken. I’ve addressed this with a hair tie fastened to the lever to keep the hook in place, though I still dip my hands in that cold water every now and again to fish for the chain. The hair tie is fine for now.
By “for now,” I mean for the past five years and likely until I move out.
I tell myself I should fix my microwave, which I haven’t told my mother about. It’s a liar. It lights up, the table turns, and purrs on G sharp—every indication it functions. But the food is ice cold when the timer is up.
I empathize with my microwave.
On my commute home, I think about all these things I should do, my self-imposed chores. I need to get rid of the canvas my ex painted for me that’s thrown itself off my wall not once, but twice, that now leans against my bookshelf. There are the light-bulbs in my kitchen that need to be replaced. Soon I will be cooking in the dark.
But once I walk through the door, I don’t care anymore. I collapse on my sofa, the one that cost too much, put my feet up on an ottoman, which has been destroyed with claw marks, and tune into a show I have already seen many times.
Julia Nimchuk is a junior at SPS from New York with a concentration in Creative Writing. She is a real estate agent with Compass and has been finding people homes and investments for over six years. In her spare time, she cooks, hikes, dabbles on piano, and sings in the shower. She was swindled into adopting a cat five years ago and is now a full-blown cat lady, sans knitting needles. This is her second time being published in Dovetail.
What fictional world would you most like to live in? Harry Potter’s, post-Voldemort era.
Tattoo or not to Tattoo? I’ve always wanted one, but I change my mind about what it would be every couple of months. Doesn’t bode well.
Who is your favorite writer? This feels like a silly answer, but Michael Pollan.