Blissful Solitude
A Moonlit Night Sky by John Atkinson Grimshaw
The whole building smelled of paint since all the doors had been repainted. She didn’t mind it. She actually quite liked the new deep green color of the doors and the smell of paint. She liked a lot of weird smells. The smell of nail polish, dry erase markers, gasoline, that slight metallic smell of the ground after rainfall. She got up to the second floor and stood in front of her lovely new green door. They had knocked off the golden ‘6’ and just left it on the floor. She dug her hand around aimlessly in her purse until it found and grabbed onto the keys. She inserted the keys, unlocked her door, and went in.
“Finally. Home at last.”
She placed the keys, her chocolate brown purse, her beanie down on the little white table by the door. Lucy the cat, which was her official title, came to greet her, warm her up, and assure her that she had done her duty keeping watch and all was in order in our humble abode.
She picked up Lucy, gave her a kiss and cuddle. “Hi, baby. I missed you too.” She put her down, removed her shoes, took off her blouse and work pants, and her bra, breathing a sign of relief. “Oh, be free my lovelies.”
She put on her favorite stained gray sweatpants and faded old Pink Floyd t-shirt. She should really wash them but the stains and fadedness and smell of, well, her made them more comfortable.
She went into the kitchen to make dinner. Lucy followed her to supervise. She turned on the instant pot to heat up and poured in some oil. She chopped half an onion as she waited for the oil to heat up, measured out half a cup of rice and half a cup of the bright red orange lentils and soaked them in warm water. She took out the spices: cumin seeds, turmeric, regular paprika since she was out of the smoked, cayenne pepper. La mise en place.
The oil was hot and ready. It whispered a sizzle when she put in the cumin seeds and then hissed loudly when the onions went in. She squeezed in some garlic. She stood over the pot and took in the delicious smell of frying onions and garlic. She added in the spices, strained the rice and lentils, and dropped them in. Two and a half cups of water, two generous pinches of salt, and 20 minutes.
She picked up her little sentinel and went and sat down on the velvet green couch. She loved seeing Lucy’s orange fur against the green of the couch. She took out her phone from her bag and saw a missed call and voicemail from her sister.
Not now. Probably about something she needs or calling to complain about her stupid husband and kids. There was little else the two had to talk about anyway. She had been trying to convert her to her way of life of domestic tolerance and mutually assured disappointment. No thank you. She, of course, would disagree but who cares ? It is so much easier to not care what people think when they’re not around. She laughed to herself. And to be one’s self.
She took one of the books she had left on the coffee table since the five steps to the bookshelf were a journey she couldn’t have possibly made the last time she touched this book. The hunger and impatience made it impossible to concentrate but she liked touching the glossy cover, opening the book and smelling the pages. She wondered what kind of tree the pages were made from. Every book smelled different.
She went back to check on the pot. 15 minutes. Why is it time always moves slowest when you’re waiting for food?
She returned to the couch and laid down. She put her hands on her stomach and took deep breaths. Breathing in, she felt her stomach and hands rise. Hold. Breathing out, she settled into her body safe and sound.
She was brought out of the peaceful, quiet state by the beeping of the pot and Lucy’s meow. She went to her concoction, opened the pot, took in the aroma. Taking a large silicone spoon, she spooned out the spicy yellow orange porridge into a clear glass bowl. A generous dollop of tzatziki, a drizzle of hot sauce, and some chopped raw onion on top. Dinner is served.
She took her bowl to the couch and set it in front of the coffee table. She brought Lucy’s bowl filled with salmon cat food and laid it on the ground beside her. “Bon appétit, Madame,” she said stroking her little kitty who dived right in.
She sat down at her own bowl. She mixed the cold tzatziki into the hot mixture of rice and lentils. She put a spoonful in her mouth and closed her eyes, relishing the taste. There’s nothing quite like cozy, comforting foods like soups, stews, porridges especially when it’s cold out. It’s the gustatory equivalent of a warm hug or a lovely blanket.
Having finished the bowl, she loaded and started the dishwasher, swept the kitchen. She turned on the tea kettle that already had water, placed a round tea bag in her red cup, and poured the boiling water in once it was ready. She took her tea and set it on the coffee table for the moment. She lit the wild rose and fig candle she had gifted herself for…for it being Friday. She turned off the kitchen light for the night, which made the candle shine even brighter in the complete dark. She put on some melancholic piano music. She slid the door of the balcony and stood there with her teacup, breathing in the cold air.
Creating these beautiful moments of pleasure and joy for herself had become something of an art for her. A symphony of the senses. She tried to do something pleasing for each sense every evening before bed. Life had taught her to never take these simple things and the inestimable gifts of joy, peace, beauty that they can give. During these moments, there was harmony in the inner and outer reality. During these moments, it was quiet inside and outside. During these moments, she was fully in the present and wanted to be nowhere else. During these moments, her black dog Despair was off somewhere snoring. During these moments, she felt like the only living being in the world living outside of time. During these moments, there was no right or wrong, no judgments or expectations. During these moments, she understood what it meant to enjoy simply being, to want nothing. Surely, if happiness, or perhaps the better word is contentment, exists, this is it.
The night wasn’t over yet. She nestled into bed and decided to try out a new toy of hers. She blew out the candle. For some reason, darkness is quite an aphrodisiac. Perhaps it’s primal. She closed her eyes and smiled at the slowly increasing humming, the tingling radiating to the center of the soles of her feet. She could feel the nerves activating in the center of her brain, the amygdala lighting up, her heart beating slightly faster, the attempt to get the placement and pressure just right, just perfect, almost there. She conjured images and sounds with an erotic charge for her. Tonight what came to mind was a sweaty Bruce Springsteen in a tight black t-shirt. A gasp and then gentle relaxation and peace.
Lucy returned and jumped on the bed, having had the discretion to give some alone time to her mistress. She curled up on top of the blankets and went to sleep.
She took the small vial of lavender oil on the night table, opened it, breathed in the scent which always soothed and had a soporific effect on her, pulled the blanket closer and tighter around her, looked and smiled at the peaceful darkness surrounding her, heard the gentle whirring of the fan, and went to sleep in her cocoon.
