OUR NEW PLACE - rebeka singer

Someone tried to paint these walls. They’re mustard splotched with careless strokes of black and the bathroom is ear-sore blue. I asked if I could paint them. The owners said only neutral colors.
I never even flipped through sample strips.
See, Robby and I just got our own place. Thought it would make us happy—closer.
We’re entertaining tomorrow.
It’s summer and already dark.
I sit at the table with a half-drunk bottle of Pinot Noir.
I call a bad drug dealer. I mean, literally, he was a shitty drug dealer. Almost never had any drugs. Can you imagine?
He stops by anyway and that’s taken care of.
All those dreams that used to be are shadows on the new walls.
My dad never danced with me at my wedding. (This, of course, was before the divorce and before Robby.) I can’t remember if my grandfather did, but it feels like he did. So somewhere in my mind it happened—for real.
It’s well past midnight. We’re at our new place.
We’re doing coke (as if that sounds edgy anymore) and listening to “Little Red Corvette.”
We’re entertaining tomorrow.
I know we won’t have sex tonight.
Rebeka Singer
No One Belongs Here More Than You
Miranda July