I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night when the ropes are mid-sway, tossed by the wind. When the sun begins to set, colors erupting, I feel alone because I watch this happen by myself.
Sometimes, my calico cat will wander by to change beds.
The ropes vary in thickness and texture; some seem more like rubber, brown or black. Others are white, with navy stripes, like the ones we’d use to tie up all the volleyballs together after practice in high school. I don’t know what these differences signify. What their use is. When there’s wind, they drum steadily against my apartment. I live on the twenty-seventh floor. There’s always wind.
There is an uneven line of pink, orange and red now on the horizon. Like a gash made in skin, when my calico’s curved claws puncture my thigh as she sits on me in the living room. A similarly shaped cloud rests above the tear, so I cannot see any beginning or ending of the day.
When I wake up in the middle of the night and see the ropes sway, I want to tell someone. I want to turn them over on the other side of the bed, because they’ve drifted in sleep and you cannot always remain intertwined. Look outside, I want to say. These are the things that I see, and I want to share them.
See the sunsets.
Neon orange clouds now float outside the window just to the right of my balcony. There is a nearly visible shift to turquoise, then green, and finally a warm peach. I wish I could touch these colors. They remind me of the icebergs floating in that lagoon in Iceland. Their colors had been just as ephemeral.
The ropes sway. How terrifying they seem. Month after month, they’ll remain dangling, surrounding my home. Making noise.
Write a scary story my best friend says. I can think of a few.