Magic

My apartment in Atlanta had Christmas lights and an orange tree. My bed was a Moroccan horse cart. I had a balcony overlooking Peachtree. People would come over and drink. I didn't drink that year. Alcohol or caffeine. And I was vegetarian. And come to think of it, celibate. My life was simple. And things dropped into it. There was a French restaurant two metro stops away that was housed in a crafsman cottage with mismatched tables and chairs. I would go there and order strawberries and cream and read. I went to the Iranian film festival down the street at the High Museum. I laughed sometimes but not a lot. I thought a lot. I watched people. I watched people on the subway. Soldiers my age being deployed to Iraq. Old ladies. I wondered what I would be like as an old lady. I was self-involved but not in a vain sort of way. I wondered about myself and who I was outside of home, college, outside of a circle of friends who knew me, in a city where no one did. I was no one's girlfriend. And for once, it wasn't sad. It just was. I didn't need much. I was happy when the orange tree sprouted two oranges. They were green at first, then slowly, they turned orange. For a moment, I liked the passage of time. I liked the way light reflected on buildings at night, I liked the swish of cars in the rain while I was under the covers. Once I got so sick I was snotting all over the place, but I had my Moroccan horse cart bed and my orange tree and Christmas lights. And I could order in hot and sour soup. I had no TV. Sometimes I listened to music though. This is when I started listening to Brian Eno. I wondered if Brian Eno had a girlfriend and if he didn't if I could be her. Then I abandoned this thought. I was happiest in the evenings, on my balcony, in my pajamas. Just thinking. I was 23. I knew I wouldn't be in this apartment, in this city for long. And I was right. But it felt like the perfect respite from the life I was supposed to live. It felt like I had escaped and no one had noticed, not even me. And this made me smile.