20
The Screen Turned Black Hanna Tischer
The scratchy couch oozes the smell of home. Sweat builds between your hand and the remote as you flip through the channels. You pick something about weddings, or a big crazy family, or maybe something about both. The sound of the TV drones on as you eat the last of the salt and vinegar chips from the bag that you only opened this morning. You push your fingers into the corners. The small chip-bits crumble against the pad of your index finger. You suck the dry and salty dust off your hand. Your fingers shine with saliva as you put them back in the bag for another helping. By the time the screen turns black and counts down from five, you debate getting up. Once you do, the backs of your bare thighs are red. You look down and see a weird speckled pattern across them and do some acrobatics to try to get a better look. With your hand on the coffee table and your left foot on the couch you realize that you’re not actually bruised. The couch stitching imprinted on your thigh. You walk five steps into your kitchen. The tile is cool and sticky. You grab the fudge-striped cookies from the cabinet and walk back to the couch. Before you sit you rub your feet against the carpet, depositing the pieces of rice your feet picked up from your kitchen floor. A loud bang from the construction outside grabs your attention. You look out and see the sky. Its blueness matches the label of the empty Blue Moon bottle on the coffee table. The view of a single cloud makes you almost feel a light spring breeze on your skin. You think about crawling into your bedroom and pulling on a pair of shorts over your underwear, putting on a clean shirt, taking the elevator down, and walking through the double doors that lead from the small lobby to outside. But then you think about how much effort that would all take. You think about how many door handles and
