I never knew where they were going to or coming from. I never bothered to check. It wasn’t my house and I figured out it was none of my business. I do not recall how many days I had woken up in the morning with the sun streaming through the old orange curtains to light up the room to stare at the black string they formed on the wall. It was like they had built an invisible highway of their own but were not smart enough to stick to their particular lane. Actually they used the same lane, running into each other. To and fro they moved. Sometimes I would just watch them and imagine that they were stopping to say hey to each other or exchange a kiss. Once in a while a whole group of them would collide, sometimes one of them would go out of truck and loose its way, a tiny white load on its even tinier head, but it never really get lost; it just moved into circles till it located the lane again. To and fro the blank ants moved in that single lane. Up and down the socket on the wall only to disappear somewhere along the door frame. I guessed if I were to open the door and follow them into the other room I would find them, maybe even discover their destination, but the moment I got out of bed I would have forgotten about them.

He turns and my thoughts move from the black ants to him. He is the reason I am in this house. This room. This bed. I look at his face. Something I always find myself doing every time I wake up before him. His deepest eyes are closed. His eyebrows are always neat and I remember asking him once whether he usually has them tweezed. If my brows were as full and neat as his I would never make those trips down to Dubois road shopping for the right eyebrow pencil. His sideburns run down his chin to join a small beard he always keeps neat. His lips are a shade of pink a contrast to his dark skin, soft and very kissable. Every time I look at them I always bite my mine, thinking about kissing them or just running my finger on them. Such a shame. Such a waste for he doesn’t like kissing.” How does a guy with such kissable lips not like kissing?” He has a nice facial structure. If I was an artist I would have a good time outlining it on canvas.

Other than him, I have no other reason to be in this room. I hate it. I hate the bed we are sleeping on. I hate the way the whole house smells but I keep coming back. Week after week I keep coming back. It doesn’t matter whether the bed is sheet less as long as I am lying on his chest. On his chest my nose never picks the smell left behind by the paraffin stove but his scent. He always smells good. In this room I feel out of place but in his arms I always feel in place. Sometimes I never want to leave. I just want to lay there, in his arms, looking at his face, listening to him breath in and out, his arm wrapped around my waist.

Fairly tales don’t always have a happy ending. Last night I didn’t lie on his chest. Where his arm should have been there lacked some warmth throughout the night. This small sheet less bed felt like a king size bed. He is drifting away. I can feel it in my bones. Maybe today will be the last morning I wake up from this room that I hate. He has issues with his ex and his baby mama. They all want him back. He claims and it is confusing him.

I am the newest girl in the picture and I wonder whether I add into his confusion. Of course I do! But I never want to be anybody’s  confusion. So as I lay on this bed that I hate. Inside this room that I hate, his back now turned to me I decide to give him his space to settle down his issues and clear the confusion in his mind. I look up to the wall; the ants are still at it, to and fro. More of them are now coming from the door frame, down the socket on the wall to the straight lane carrying with them their white tiny loads. As I look at them I can’t help but wonder whether they have any other thing in their minds other than the journey they are on. Do they have a mind in the first place?