Los Angeles

Close up shot of office building on Wilshire Boulevard. The sky is blue behind the gray building. Interior shot of office. A woman stands with her back to the camera. She is wearing a black cotton empire waist dress and a necklace with large gold balls. Her hair is long and blonde. The caption reads: “Whitney.” She is looking at a bookcase, which wraps around the entire frame. The bookcase contains issues of Teen Vogue and Vogue US, coffee table fashion books, and modern vases in white, pink, and olive green. Above the bookcase are posters of Teen Vogue covers, including the first issue of Teen Vogue with Gwen Stefani on the cover. Whitney Port turns around and sits down at a metallic, lightweight desk with no drawers and a large Mac desktop computer. Switch to doorway. A woman steps into the room. The caption says “Lauren.” She is wearing a black and red floral print halter dress. Her hair is long and shiny and brown.

Carla wasn't a waitress, but she played one in the diner. What she really wanted to do was take photographs. She used to tell me all about it as I sat there at the counter, ordering dishes almost blindly, and trying to make her laugh.

Carla was very thin and very, very pretty, and her voice seemed to come from far away. I'd try to ask her out as she came back from the tables, but I could never seem to find the words to say.

Then one day Carla told me a story. A story a friend of hers had told her. She said that if you went out to a field and closed your eyes, and tried to walk straight, you'd actually go in circles.

In circles? I said. Why would that happen?

I frowned; it didn't make any sense.

I don't know, Carla said. It's something about the brain. Maybe one side is more powerful or something.

Oh, I said.

It seemed to make sense.

Many problems still remain, but I am not angry. Why is that?

I live in this room and that is all that I do. I should be anxious over my lack of achievement but am not. I do, however, make lists of what I’ve eaten today. I say:

— I wrote this after eating an apple.

— I wrote this after eating sawdust.

— I wrote this after eating a dose of iron.

— I wrote this after eating walnut jam.

The world has not melted in years. It froze many years ago I suppose, but I don’t know — nor could I, because all I do is live in this room. The room is a tight fit. In any case, I think it’s a room because there are four walls and a window with a bronze-colored curtain over it. The world froze many years ago, so the window faces an open expanse of flat ice tinted a grayish blue, like a cloud turned inside out.

But I am not angry.

Why is that?