An Homage to Nolan’s First Film, Following: Chapter 1
I haven’t been outside in 391 days. I’ve held all my breaths, saving them for air worth taking in. My apartment is not the kind that has room for charcuterie boards or acoustics to bear that one friend who argues loudly about the rules when he’s losing at game night. There is hardly enough space for me. The floors rock, the windows don’t roll, and the walls have been painted over so many times I can see the last ten occupants in them. It’s stuffy here. But he doesn’t get that — he doesn’t want to. This morning he left a note on Cairo’s scat; that’s his way of telling me to clean his shit up. Once I read the note, it didn’t matter because I was finally going earthside.
I had been saving all the good parts of me for fresh air, so you can imagine my disappointment when he had me confined to this damn car. Black ice is hardly the scent of a new adventure, but it’s better than the smell of the old Avon perfumes I’m used to in my four walls. I pressed my forehead against the glass and started window shopping. I was enamoured by the saxophonist’s confidence. The passersby stood still and worshipped his riffs. I soaked it all in, pickpocketing every laugh, every distraction, every lack of care. I inhaled their autonomy. They have no idea how lucky they are to just stand there and take life in.
