bread loaves
I’ve stopped eating meals. I prefer to wake up sometime around noon and immediately have a drink. Any drink will do. Some days it’s soda, others coffee, today, cask wine. I will soon after go to the store and buy a loaf of bread. I like different kinds. Yesterday was focaccia, today, challah. Challah tastes like eggs; I don’t think I’ll buy it again.
I live in a house with other people. It’s cheaper that way. People hardly ever leave their rooms, except to cook sometimes, and the house is perfectly silent. The kitchen smells like beef that’s been sitting in the freezer too long, and the harsh white light reminds me of the pound where my dad brought my dog when I was twelve.
I don’t like to do things. Nothing at all. I prefer to watch and listen. I hear the others in the house on phone calls or watching TV. I can identify what they’re watching if I strain my ears hard enough. The person in the room above me talks to a girl on the phone a lot, I think.
“I want to kiss you all over. Over, and over.” he says. I think. I listen so hard my ears begin to ring.
Sometimes I hear a voice that sounds exactly like my own, and I’m not sure who it is. I’ve met everyone that lives in the house. The voice seems to be coming from the bathroom, which is behind the wall by my bed. I hear her when I wake up. Sometimes I’ll have a funny thought and the voice laughs.
For lunch, I continue to eat my loaf of bread. I take pieces of it all day long. In fact, there is no lunch. There is no dinner. I will continue to have bites of my bread until I’m full. At five, I peel two oranges. At nine, I am full and put the rest of my bread in the kitchen for someone else to eat, if they’d like.
Today, I heard her say something that I almost said out loud. I was on the phone with my mom, and before I said, “Goodbye, love you,” I heard her say it. I put my ear to the wall and heard nothing. I’ve decided to name the voice Eva. It makes it feel less frightening, having a name.
I opened a can of ginger ale, and found clothes to wear to the store. There was a frilly blue sock in my top drawer that I’d never seen before.
“You bought those yesterday.” Eva says to someone.
I walk past George in the kitchen as I leave the house. He’s chewing on the last of my bread that I’d left in the kitchen last night. “I’m making eggs, would you like some?” he asks. I shake my head. He knows I don’t eat eggs.
I buy a rye loaf with cranberries and start eating it in the car. I don’t like it much, so I think I’ll be a little hungry today.
“Would you like any eggs?” George asks me as I walk past the kitchen again, going to my room.
“No. No thank you.” I’m pretty sure he asked me before I left.
Before getting into bed, I brush my teeth, but my toothbrush is already wet. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet. I lie flat on my back on top of my blankets. I don’t hear anything, except for the air conditioner. Maybe someone is taking a shower upstairs.
I pull a pad of sticky notes from my desk, and scribbl down a few notes to leave around.
George – thank you for offering, but I don’t eat eggs!
I’ll put that one on the fridge.
The yellow toothbrush belongs to Kaffa.
I put it on the bathroom mirror. That’s my name.
Please lock the door after coming inside.
I put that note on the door frame. It annoys me when someone comes back but doesn’t lock the door. It keeps happening.
I lay down again, and fall asleep.
The next morning, I prepare to go out and buy bread. I can tell someone is standing directly outside my door by the shadow cast onto my carpet. It’s George.
“Someone’s been in the bathroom for hours. I thought it was you, so I was listening at your door. Sorry. I’m not sure who it is.”
“Okay.”
“Would you like some eggs?”
“No, George.”
George is wearing the orange sweater that I keep under my bed. It belonged to my dad.
Someone is calling my name, but I don’t feel like talking.
Keelan Ramsek is an artist currently living in Texas. She has a daughter, and she and her husband are the editors of Calf Magazine. Keelan is 20 years old.