words and lens

I entered this apartment, which had always reminded me of a mouse hole sealed with a large ball of wax. Even the door greeted me with a rectangular shape, a slight arch at the top, and a yellowish doorknob. For a moment, I was afraid to touch it, so much did it remind me of a lump of sticky wax. I overcame my revulsion and opened the door to another world. At least, certainly different from the pale hallway, descending into anemia, even galloping consumption. He coughed and paled ever more in farewell as I entered the apartment. I closed the door behind me and, smiling broadly, glanced back, hoping the large cat would bump its head against it. What a shame. I go deeper into my serene gray hole, stomping loudly. Will you hear it? You've recognized those footsteps that announce art on camera. You sit me on the floor in your lap. I move to yours and kiss my favorite eyebrow of the two, while you breathe on my neck. We almost forget the most important thing. I sit in front of the mirror, cross my legs, and take off my shoes and socks. I enjoy this for a moment on the bare dance floor, then I return to the mirror and undress completely. I wonder if you're looking over my shoulder at our reflection, but you've taken up the lens. Then you direct me, and I feel like that gray mouse again, but you cheer me up when you press a chocolate cupcake into my hand. While I was eating, you had to take a picture of the crumbs on my cleavage, then to finish, you captured my cold feet and put the lens in the black box. Everything stopped again, and I could stand firmly on my feet without fear of the floor spinning around, spinning me around, revealing every side of my body you no longer need. Now all we need are our words, which soak into the walls, and we look as if we were turning into fish instead of mice.

...

I sat in the hallway. I thought the hallway had sucked me in along with the deep gulp of air it took to sneeze mightily, but I knew I was there as I pressed my buttocks into the hard step on which I sat. On my lap, I held an open envelope bearing remnants of saliva mixed with crumbs of chocolate muffin. Inside the envelope were photos, in which the furniture and floors, crumbs, and an empty mirror glistened with spots of light. And in my breast pocket, looking away, I innocently put a photo in which the mouse-colored walls swelled with the color of the words.