5/20/2023 0 Comments Parallel by lauren miller![]() text request that I “stop by” his house on my way home. (None for me so far-I forced myself to write CAN’T TONIGHT! in response to Michael’s 11:57 p.m. In other words, my room looks exactly the way it did five hours ago when I fell into a food coma after inhaling three slices of double pepperoni on my walk home from Toad’s, the most popular place for Yalies to drink, dance, and make bad decisions. There is a tiny mound of crust crumbs on my floor. ![]() The jacket I wore last night is slung over my desk chair. The photograph Marissa gave me for my birthday is on the wall. How long would I keep my eyes shut, waiting for that sound? I haven’t thought through what would happen if I were to wake up somewhere other than this room. And once I hear the garbage truck’s now-familiar beep, I know for certain that it hasn’t. As long as my eyes are closed, I can assume that reality hasn’t changed again. Just my way of preserving the illusion that I am exactly where I was the night before. ![]() Like clockwork: the campus garbage truck, backing up to the bins on the other side of the courtyard wall. Daylight is pressing against my eyelids, but I resist the urge to open them. ![]()
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