Closet Crash

Sunday late afternoon is spent reveling in a cool, languid heat, sipping Sazeracs and stouts. Then we gorge on Cajun spiced food, the soft flesh of white catfish, bloodied tomatoes, rich mayonnaise sauce. We speak slowly and laugh. Tattoos, given to ourselves, or bestowed upon us by friends. Ventriloquism. Documentaries. We sit on wooden picnic table benches, prime real estate, as cigar and marijuana smoke mingle and permeate, a couple of local of caricatures smacking on rolled joints of different flavors, stretched taut denim, stretched taut braids. Reading conspicuously from some red leather journal as they puff.

Earlier that day, zealous, I arrange fastidiously various limp cascades of fabric in my two new closets, harnessing spacial analysis and brute force. A wooden dowel, long and supported by cheap plastic, I ignore all tenets of physics that I know to be true and cruel. Snap, like a cracking bone. Collapse. Inevitable entropy, sprawled and crumpled on the floor. 

I cry for a moment, overwhelmed and hot, then decide this is a manifestation of the proverbial growing pains.