Lurker Notes

It still works. I’ll be able to wear it again when I lose some weight. I’ve kept it this long. Someday, I’ll make myself read it. You can’t have too many. It will be handy to have if the new one breaks. I might wear it as part of a Halloween costume. It will be worth something someday. I want to learn to play it. I can’t get for it what it’s worth. It can be repaired. It was expensive. It’s practically new. It’s not taking up much space. I’ll need it again if I ever go back to Paris. It was a gift. It was my dad’s. She made it in kindergarten. It was the first one I ever had. It was his when he was little. It reminds me there will never again Be anything quite like the feeling of holding this For the first time. 

Large, involuntary gatherings are rare in adult life, but we were summoned and we have come. The exhibition hall is football field-huge and utterly charmless: dingy beige walls and gray floors, most everything made of concrete, old and tacky.  Large letters above doors announce RESTROOMS and EXIT.  It’s the sort of room you can imagine being used as a cafeteria in a prison -- the definitive large, involuntary adult gathering.  The ceiling is the same neutral color as the walls.  Here and there a ceiling tile is missing or partially out of place like a door left ajar by someone expecting to return through it.  Two fire alarms are stuck on the wall in the front.  The doors look too tiny and few to allow a quick, mass exit from the enormous room but there doesn’t appear to be anything flammable here except what people are wearing and what they carry, including the white slips of paper which summoned each to this gathering.