Fabric

Wrinkles. Wrinkles everywhere. My eyes, awakened by the sunlight penetrating the sheet that has engulfed me during the night, land on the irregular patterns spattered on it. Should it already be so bright outside? Why hasn’t the alarm rung?

I pull up the blanket even more in my futile attempt at blocking the light. But after a few seconds of breathing that borders on meditation and annoyance, I escape the comfort of my bed and reach for the phone. It’s 7:07. Of course, it’s summer. The day starts early.

I miss the wintertime, when the sun sets at 4:30 and rises at 8:30. Winter is cold, but its companion is warmer. Darkness is the kind of warmth that you’d give everything up for. Like that which a mother would give to her child, when she embraces them with the entirety of herself, with her arms, belly, and breasts devouring every inch of the child. With a short lick on the lips, as if tasting the feeling on the tip of the tongue, I leave behind the bed and head to the closet to get dressed. After 15 minutes, I’m on my way to work.

My job consists of fabric, chemicals, and dirt. It is known as dry cleaning, but it’s really not even done dry, nor does it actually clean. Dry cleaning uses perchlorethylene, a chemical whose job is to take out stains, and after that, the fabric is pressed to eliminate wrinkling. But here is the thing about the chemical: it is known to be the culprit behind numerous health risks. People might have wrinkle-free garments, but at the expense of wrinkling their health. But I get it. We all grasp at anything that manifests our desire to have a wrinkle-free life, even if that means that desire further twists the fabric of reality.

I don’t know how I ended up here. Not that I’m complaining about the job, because I do enjoy the routine that has become a part of me. I remember the time when I was so excited to study philosophy at university. The image of a professor interacting with their students, sharing ideas was enamoring. But soon after I realized that philosophy is nothing to be learned, but to be lived. So I dropped out. After that, I pursued music, for which I had had talent ever since I was a child. I approached music the way I would approach philosophy. I was living it, instead of learning it. The world, on the other hand, didn’t deserve my music. Cacophony? Fuck you. This is art. So that was that.

I was traveling the country, and that’s when I met her. She swooped in like a gust of wind, that was strong enough to move a mountain. I remember adoring everything about her. Her smile, her laugh, the way she said my name. She was this small packet of happiness gushing out of its endless source. Or at least she was until it ran out. “Where did we go wrong?” she would ask. “Sometimes that’s how feelings are.” I would say. They are so bright, you can’t see how deep they are, but once the light dies down, you realize, they were just a pond. “We’ll both find someone else”. And that was the last thing I said to her. I have no regrets, because it was meant to be.

I like going for a drive in my old Audi during the sunset near the coastline after work. I have my most comfortable outfit on: wrinkled trousers and a windbreaker. But when I get to the cliff, my usual turning point, something draws me out of the car. I finally realize what it is. It’s the warmth. It’s the dark. And I draw near the end of the cliff.

“Aren’t I happy?” I ask myself. I take another step.

Yes, I am.

Everything goes black.