Three Floors Up

Paul Agusta   |  Sun, 07/06/2008 11:37 AM  |  Bookmark

Floating out of your body, now, in the place where you are, to a place where you very well may have never been. It is a welcome relief to leave behind the shell of a life you have led for as long as you can remember, and proceed to move -- entirely formless -- through the lives of others.

The sensation of nothing fills you to bursting, as you careen about wildly.

Touching upon everything within a seemingly infinite distance, and then going around once more at a giddy clip. Man, woman, machine, concrete, steel, pavement, dog, cat, squirrel -- all are brand new (as though seen for the first time). Passing through every form you have ever known, you feel a thrill you had never known possible.

Finally, as the sensation begins to lose its freshness, and a sort of dizziness sets in, you settle on a park bench not far removed from a restless city street.

The first hint of morning light appears on the horizon, and it's like the first day of your life.

You notice even the smallest of events transpiring in what is considered the normal routine.

Nature begins to shake off its night blanket, and sets about opening buds, drying dew from leaves, wiping sleep from eyes, and there, from the window of a small apartment on the third floor of a large complex, the soft sounds of gentle lovemaking swell to an almost operatic crescendo, and we are momentarily left in silence.

In trees soft chirping grows more and more persistent as birds awake from their slumber and begin to flap about restlessly. Below, the streets begin to busily bustle with the hustle of the daily to and fro.

Men with hats of a soft variety enter taxis, and men with hats of a hard variety blast away at the concrete. Women in various sorts of fashionable attire fill the streets with an impressive beauty, while those women who are out of step falter and fail to grab any attention but that of the most cruelly critical nature.

A typical day runs its course entirely oblivious of the new, strange and wonderful sensation experienced by two friends in a bedroom three floors up above the humdrum.

Enter, now, the front door of this apartment and float through a living room in disarray (pillows strewn across a sofa that has seen better days, a coffee table that has soaked in gallons of coffee, ancient Chinese food cartons on top of and underneath every single surface in the relatively small area, and bottles of both an alcoholic and non-alcoholic nature lying in heaps).

Stop briefly in the kitchen, if you dare, though you do so at your own risk. It is best now to float briefly outside the window, clear your head, and float back in. Wisely skipping past the bathroom, you move straight on into the bedroom.

Focusing now on the bed, you are taken slowly under a private shelter of unadulterated happiness. Beneath a threadbare blanket providing little warmth lay a man and a woman. They are huddled together as tightly as possible -- still intertwined in the most intimate way possible.

His arms (barely bothered by muscle) are around her now, moving in warming waves over her body (slight, and yet soft in exactly the right places). She returns the favor, stroking his back gently. He is nothing much to look at, but then men never really are.

You pull back to give them the privacy that they deserve, and perch perhaps on one of the bookcases out in the living room. Time passes much too quickly (as it always does in this sort of situation).

Shortly, she is in the bathroom washing herself off, and he is in the living room, on the couch, in his bathrobe. His head rests heavily against the back of the sofa, and he drifts off into a light sleep.

The sound of the shower being turned off pulls him out of his slumber, and he sets off toward the kitchen to set a pot of coffee brewing. He picks a small section of counter that is relatively free of debris, and clears what is there to form a work surface. Upon opening the refrigerator, a worried expression claws its way across his face and settles in.

Selected from the frightening contents are a tub of margarine, some seemingly mold-free jam and a bottle of orange juice that does not smell as though it has begun to develop new life-forms.

Wrapped in a towel she comes up behind him and wrinkles her nose. She moves over to a cupboard, pulls out one of the few remaining clean mugs, and pours herself a cup of coffee.

You pull back out of the living room window, and drift gently down with a falling leaf to rest upon that same bench, just barely removed from the center of everything. You let your mind wander freely about, touching on various points of interest, wondering what your next observation will be.

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