Episode

clink clink

The glass of water does nothing more than jiggle, the faint clinking needlessly adding to the sound of hot air coming out of the bentilador. Nobody’s awake yet. At 11 AM on the nth day of staying home, my housemates are probably still living out the absurd and/or perverted tenets of the nighttime interpretations of their subconscious. Guess you could call them ‘dreams’.

Right now, in the sala-slash-dining room, I’m sitting on my hands—have been for the last half hour or so (or less; I like overestimating things). My palms feel numb and my phalanges feel like they’re about to crack at the world’s weight. My legs can’t stay still but there’s probably only about 7 minutes left. I should be fine. At the sound of that lone sweat bead sliding down the side of my face, I kick the table again. This time, the glass tips farther than it did a few seconds ago. I deliver the final blow.

Our untiled floor is weirdly leveled. Years of people standing on that one part of the Star Wax-shined cemented ground for extended periods of time all led to this wonderful moment three months after we rearranged the furniture. I watch as the water flows through the engravings on the plastic table, all the way to the edge, under which the little flowerpot is waiting. Simple logic tells me that it can wait until this episode of mine is over, but the same irrational anxiety that’s the root of all this is adamant about getting me to water the plant before 11:27 AM. I did it with 2 minutes left on the clock. I just saved the world.

The plant is no longer bothering me. Now I’m back to what got my mind so worked up in the first place.

If I could only figure out what it was that I wanted to do. No, wait. I’ve solved that part of the riddle already: I wanted to post a status on FB… but what exactly? I can hear my mind starting to go berserk again. I remember that I’m older than the youngest person to have dementia again, and that this forgetfulness is a tell-tale sign of it, and that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll have had my memory wiped in my sleep, again. My lips part and I realize I’ve been holding my breath the last few seconds.

I attempt to ground myself again. My eyes dart to the TV stand, to where my favorite Russian doll is, the one whose bottom half I gave to my first “best friend” in 3^rd grade. All this while I breathe in and out, trying to calm down, reminding myself that it’s just an attack and that in a few more minutes, the tingling sensation in my hands should be gone.

For the most part, I’m successful. As if in celebration of the feat, a random song plays in my head: Alicia Keys’ ‘If I Ain’t Got You’. I don’t know who I’m doing this real-time narration for, but I’ll have you know that that song isn’t my favorite, just a song I’ve basically heard other people listen to my whole life. Distracted by the thought that I’m possibly explaining to an audience, I smile and let the song finish. Random videos and images of Alicia Keys flash in my head, like some 2006 fan-made YouTube music video.

I now remember how much I liked that other song of hers, the one that made me want to wear fishnet gloves while singing. My thoughts then go all the way to when I was 9, and I remember the song. Karma.

Mental image: door bolts locking into place, a successful bottle flip, synchronized swimmers doing their job right, crumpled paper going straight into the bin on the first throw, water from a toppled-over glass on a tabletop spilling directly into a small flowerpot. Everything is in its place.

I carefully take out my hands from under my bum and wring them, hissing at the pain of sudden blood rush. I wait 10 seconds then I pick up my phone. I open the Facebook app and click on the box asking me what’s on my mind. It’s now 11:33. I type in the words.

Karmic Justice.