No. 2

In my apartment, there was only the soft scratching of a pencil point meeting cartridge paper. Uneven strokes created for me a dissonant sort of music and I filled the page edge to edge with shapes and shading. It was my routine - to pass the small morning hours hunched over the table letting my pencil move without attachment to my mind. Lost in these wanderings, I didn’t feel another presence settle in behind me until the back of my neck tickled with intuition.

“Again?” came the question.

“Yes,” was my answer, my eyes and pencil not leaving the paper.

“That’s 47 days in a row.”

“Yes.” 

The motion shifted gently from behind me around to my side. I could sense that my work was being observed without having to look up. Our movements dancing both in and around each other’s orbits was something I had gotten used to fairly quickly, all things considered. I was sharing my home these days because of a government mandate. Any person that was not registered with a life partner and at least two children was required to open their home to provide additional accommodations. You were either categorized as a nuclear family that could exist as a single unit or you were an irregular initiate and became subject to involuntary quartering. I wondered if the government workers and other higher-ups enforcing this mandate were subject to the opening of their homes as well.

Unsurprisingly, marriage and birth rates had never been higher. 

My apartment was small so I only had to accommodate one addition. It was more or less about as annoying as having a roommate, which for me, was a familiarity until just a couple of years ago. Having this other with me in my apartment had actually brought a fresh and strange energy, and I joyfully found that my morning drawings were becoming more vibrant and striking than ever. I felt compelled to fill pages and pages, day after day, just in case my imagination would bloat and burst overnight, destroying my brain.

“Will you do it again tomorrow?” plied another question.

“Most likely,” I replied, lifting my pencil up, scrutinizing the page.

“But you’re not sure.”

“No.” 

“Because you cannot predict tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

I heard the small hmph that I had become accustomed to. The word itself was always the same but the feeling behind it was a constant variation. Sometimes it was loud and ruffled, as if agitated. It could also be long, light, and arching which I presumed to be contemplative. Today, as it drifted out into the air, it sounded as if it would feel like velvet if I could touch it. It seemed almost pleased. I was pleased as well. 

I added a few more strokes to the paper and then abandoned the table to go fix some toast and a pot of coffee. The sun was beginning to rise with intensity and I realized that my body felt hollow and wrung out from a lack of food and caffeine. 

“Would you like me to prepare for you?” I was asked. 

“No, thanks,” I offhandedly directed back. “I got it.” 

“But it will disrupt your flow.” 

“Yes.”

“You dislike when your flow is disrupted.”

“Typically.” I confirmed. “But right now, the stomach calls and I can make it all pretty fast.”

“Nourishment is currently more important than flow.” It came out a statement, not a question. “And you are efficient at making the nourishment.”

“Yes.” 

The hmph that followed was longer and inflected downward to indicate that it was somewhere between mostly understanding but still somewhat not. I thought about how I could build a ramp to redirect the lack of surety. 

“Sometimes it’s also just nice to do things yourself,” I added hoping to clarify and encourage a deeper apprehension. I don’t know if I did.

Coffee grounds were measured into a paper filter and then I started the maker to get the brew underway. I thought once again about adding a reusable filter to my shopping list which sat on the counter less than two feet away. But I didn’t. The dark-roasted aroma began to waft out in puffs of wet steam as I pushed bread into the toaster. It didn’t take long for them to pop back up, dark and crisp.

“You should get a reusable filter,” came from directly behind me as I set about buttering and jamming. “For the coffee pot.” 

“Yes.” I agreed, licking the knife. 

“It would create less waste.” 

“It would.” I agreed again. 

“Everyone should use reusable filters. For their coffee.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I’m not.” 

There was a pause that indicated I was expected to continue.

“There’s much we should all be doing,” I decided to add and grabbed two mugs from the shelf. 

“Why do you all not do much?” 

We tended to go through conversations like this at a regular intervals. Unfortunately, I seemed to be unable to ever generate an adequate answer. My words liked to amble up and down paths like an explorer with a map whose dotted lines sprung out in every direction, criss-crossing dizzyingly. I could never decide how simple or complex to be and it’s even harder when my blood sugar is low.

So I decided not to answer at all. 

Steaming mugs were brought back to the table. Cream and sugar followed behind and last to join were the plates of warm toast releasing a strong scent of yeast and strawberry. 

We were quiet at the table. It was a comfortable morning silence. I waited. 

Finally, two or three bites and sips in, I heard the hmph that was arguably my favorite. Contented. This one always seemed to be released into the air and encouraged to float over to me where my own body would absorb it and feel the same easing waves of contentment as well. 

I breathed out a long appreciative sigh for the gift passed to me until I heard, “You are happy.”

I took a long, hot pull of coffee and answered, “Yes. I am.” 

I offered a small smile. It was a beautifully simple moment. The kind that can surprise you by leaving a twinge behind your molars and a reminder deep in your core. You cannot possibly understand, or even imagine how a modicum of grace might begin to enter your life. You can only appreciate it when it does and enjoy the beautiful ache. I looked at my pad of paper and pencil on the table next to me and thought about the pleasure I would get if I meditated on this moment, letting my hand animate my inner world onto a blank white square. 

I didn’t fight the urge. I pulled my tools in front of me and pushed breakfast aside to get cold. 

“I have another question.” 

“Okay,” I responded, pencil already mid-glide onto the page.

“Where is the No. 1?”

I paused and looked up. “What?” I asked. 

“Where is the No. 1?” it came again.

My brain seemed to stall. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said. “Number one of what?” 

“Of your pencil.”

I blinked and pulled the pencil away from the paper.

“No. 1?” I repeated, tilting the pencil in my hand fairly incredulously. The small black lettering embossed near the eraser suddenly didn’t seem real, as if it were a figment of my already stimulated imagination. 

“Yes. I only ever see you use No. 2. Where is No. 1?”

Later, when my mind would revisit this moment, I would remember a buoyant feeling in my body, like I had breathed in bubbles. I would remember the feeling of a grin slowly splitting my face and crinkling at my eyes. I would remember that I felt both childlike and aged, silly and shocked. Like maybe this was the most important question I had ever been asked.

“You know, I have absolutely no idea.” 

“hmph.”