Divided

One night you split in half.

Last Friday you lingered at work after clocking out.  On the way home you stopped for two steamed pork buns, $1.63.  You paid in coins, which are, in general, a nuisance.  It is highly untidy to leave spare change behind.  

You took pride in being able to eat while walking.  It was one of the few skills just the right size to be appreciated.  Anything bigger was too important to be believed of you, anything smaller was so inconsequential that recognition was pathetic.  And so, you stayed in motion on the sidewalk, eating dinner nice and neat and tidy.

You bounced up the stairs to your apartment.  The calm you felt was not strange, but a documented phenomenon absolutely typical for your situation.  There were always those suspicions that you were nothing special, and in this one instance you were correct.

Last week you had borrowed a vacuum from your neighbor.  The carpet was cleaner than when you moved in two years ago.  You placed your black Nikes against the wall, laces tucked.  In the closet you could see the machine in its box.  Last Christmas it arrived, your present to yourself.  

Cut the tap. Unfurl the cord.  Climb in the closet.  Tape the gap.  Enter the gap.  And that's when you split in two.