What is freedom?
Is it walking in hallways, clicking heels, swaying hips, moving through doorways? The release of pressure that builds up in your belly and swells your neck when you realize the door doesn’t swing open. Dancing in your socks on the beer poured carpet that you stopped trying to clean. The heads up you give the young girl on her bike as you enter your home to the sweet smell of cigarette smoke that lingers from the previous night.
Maybe its the anticipation, the knowledge, the pursuit for that small moment of reprieve. The build up stretching out. Desiring the climax, but never wanting that build up again. The further doors that she can sway her hips through. The smirk that sits on her lips wondering for how long she can get away with it. How much longer does the door remain closed? How long till the beer stain leaves the carpet? How long till the little girl isn’t allowed to look at her? How long till the doorway closes and the pressure comes back and she continues to be choked at the market, in the kitchen, in the garden, in the bedroom, in the car, in the alley way?
The heels sit tighter on her feet. Squeezing her toes till they lap over each other asking for some room to wiggle. The discomfort stiffens her legs. They elongate. Her hips now move against the wind. The house now smells of lemons and citrus and the doors of the hallway block the entry so she can’t stand underneath. Her socks are folded in the hamper waiting for the next set of moments they will be unwrapped again. The carpet is a single beige. She’s already on the couch when the door finally opens.
