The walls are an orange marmalade - painted after a semester abroad in Barcelona over Christmas break, the first one I had spent there since my family had moved. The walls were previously a pastel pink, a color which I couldn't stand. Being surrounded by four walls of pink felt smothering. It reminded me of Pepto-Bismol - the thick, heavy slab of pink in the plastic bottle. I elicited the help of my effervescent best friend and we got to work. There are a few splotch marks where the paint had splashed, marring the white ceiling. I never bothered fixing it - it is the botched brushstroke of an overzealous twenty-one year old. I kind of like it.
I walk into the ensuite bathroom. There are no towels in there, no soap. I clearly don't spend much time in this room, this bathroom, this house. Nor does anyone. I don't live here anymore. I'm a grown ass woman, a friend once said to me.
I love coffee. These days, Dunkin' Donuts Original Blend is my brew of choice. I pull open the pantry in the kitchen and I see two bags of coffee. One is nearly empty, the other looks at least a year old. I sigh. Well, at least there are physical remnants of my presence that my family can recognize.
You know, like excavating evidence of civilization.
