My desk drawer slid forward and struck my hip… again. I absently pressed it back in place, and rested my hip against its surface, my body morphed into a makeshift drawer jamb. When I stood up, I pushed the chair flush against the wood.

 

Despite the inadequate drawer, the desk always possessed a charming beauty. Gray tones and saltire decorated between the legs and across the cabinet door. I’d kept the desk under my window since I was fifteen, hoping to see sunsets during long hours of essay-writing and sum-finding. At the time, I didn’t care about using my hip as a drawer jamb. 

 

Today, the desk had to move because, yesterday, he called while I sat under the window. His pauses between each sentence lasted a beat too long. I’d already memorized this performance the way I memorized the perfect way to sit and keep the drawer closed.

 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

 

“I have class tomorrow,” I said bluntly, a shield against questions he should already have the answers to.

 

“What classes?” he probed, a foreign question from someone who used to share my schedule.

 

“What are you doing?” I asked immediately, slightly shifting.  

 

“Trying to be friends… isn’t that what you wanted?” His tone preferred to say See how nice I’m being now?

 

Right as he finished his sentence, the desk drawer creeped open again, silently assaulting my hip bone. My knuckles tightened, pleading to slam it closed.

 

“I can’t be friends. You said we never had a firm foundation,” every bone of mine wanted to break as I forced my mouth to finish: “I believe you now.” Moments later, silence. 

 

My shoulders collapsed. My lungs breathed again. It felt like finally getting out of the way and letting the desk drawer open if it pleased. 

 

Earlier today, I mentioned I would rearrange my furniture, and my father spoke over his morning coffee. “Parts of your floor are uneven. Be careful where you leave things, or they’ll be lopsided.” He didn’t know his comment stayed with me. I didn’t know about the floor under the desk. 

 

Four years ago, I moved my desk so I could see the sunset. Today, I moved the desk to the side wall–where the floor is flat. Holding the drawer closed, I lifted the desk across my floor, embracing the way my fingers pulled tight with the weight. I moved slowly enough to neither drop it nor scratch any wood as I set it against the side wall, away from the window. I stepped away to grab the chair, but when I turned around, I saw the strangest thing. Even with nothing holding it, the drawer stayed closed.