My Coffee Table

…My living room coffee table is black, overly reflective, sleek like it should always have a gram of cocaine carelessly spilled across its surface. Its edges are rough, but it’s from IKEA so they probably aren’t going to take anyone’s eyes out. In the front closest to me is a drawer I have to push in before it will pull open; I’m delighted by mechanics like this. Inside the drawer is some birth control, a mild antidepressant, and a statin I’m too young to be taking. Underneath that is a bed of marijuana so thick that every time I open that drawer, the smell takes over the room. On top of the coffee table is a cup of coffee and a bottle of water. The coffee makes 10pm taste like morning and although I hate the feeling of almost-scalding liquid touching the roof of my mouth, I hate being tired more. Next to the coffee is a knitting project, a sock in its infancy. Very small needles cuddle a ball of yarn, purple with variegated streaks of bright orange. The sock will be gorgeous when it’s finished, but for now, it resembles a limp wristband, too large to fit anyone and too small to be anything but useless. When I clean, which is rare, the coffee table squeaks as I drag a paper towel across its wet surface. I hate cleaning, so we have coasters…

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