It's a Furniture Sale - All Pieces Custom Made
Dedicated to the man who will build a house to call his own one day.
He read the message on his phone. He swallowed. He looked out the window. He ran his hands through his hair quickly though his head did not itch. Then he took his truck out to his parent’s old house. He parked out back by the warehouse and looked at the bits and pieces he had only just begun to make for her.
There was the first wooden table. That would be his work table. He would use it to make them more things. For their dream world. For their home.
There were the shelves. She had said she liked to read, so he had put the shelves together. He only needed to sand them down a little more really. He wondered how many books she really had.
There was the chair. She had told him one of her secrets, she had told him about her special place. It was on a porch. At a home. Watching her boy. And she hadn’t said it, but the vision, he knew, would only be complete with a rocking chair. So the chair, he had just barely started… because she had only just shared her happy place with him.
But he had made these wooden things, these tangible things, these real things for a world that didn’t exist. He had made them for a future that was an optimistic leap from reality. He had made it for their dream world. He had made them for her.
He kicked the table limply. Then he grabbed a block of wood and suddenly raised it into the air. Just before he was about to smash the wood to the floor, he stopped. He took a breath. The boy from his childhood who played out in the pastures and drank milk like his mother told him to, caught him. The little boy stared at him from just outside the warehouse. The little boy shook his head and then disappeared. And the young man dropped the wooden block. And he wiped his face although it did not itch this time either. He walked out of the warehouse. The outdoor air smelled sweet. She would have liked this air, he thought.
He pressed his back to the building and slid down until he sat on the concrete pavement. He didn’t care much about getting his jeans dirty. They were old work jeans that were worn to be dropped into the dust time and time again. He closed his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it would make things worse. But he visited her in the dream world—the one he was building furniture for.
There she was. She was laughing and giggling. She sat on the bed in her underwear and one of his shirts. He could see her so clearly. He reached out towards her. He wanted to trace her body with his finger tips. He wanted to gently bring her face towards his, kiss her, smell her hair. He imagined she smelled a little like the earth, a little salty, a little like jasmine or yellow roses.
Her hair was messy. He wondered if it was Sunday? Was it the weekend? But it was the dream world, so it was a never ending weekend. She had finished her homework. He had a test he would study for later. She laid on the bed, asking if he wanted to go for a walk. He reached out for her, grabbed her ankles and pulled her towards him. She laid in front of him with her legs hanging off of the bed. He bent over slowly and kissed her just under her belly button. Her laugh made him smile, so he couldn’t kiss her again properly for a few seconds. He had to pause…
And then he opened his eyes. There he was out back of his parent’s old warehouse with wooden furniture that would never come alive. The air smelled like the earth, a little salty, a little like jasmine or yellow roses. Wasn’t she just a little curious?