“They’ll name a city after us,
and later say it’s all our fault.”
A room somewhere with freshly pressed sheets and forgettable paintings on the wall that someone was commissioned to create all of it is simple, serene, sterile, yet in this room somewhere, it could be anywhere, there is history lying within.
Bodies encircled and snapped for the world to see, a reflection of love, of marriage, of celebrity, of perfection, though the freshly pressed sheets are now wrinkling, just at the two lovers will wrinkle someday, and they have been commissioned, too, to create, to educate, to be defining.
In the room, with cameras and light stands, the two people whisper in-between takes about a call to return, a missed appointment, a dinner plan for later, and perhaps an inside joke that translates only to each other, a dirty one maybe, about a different night in a similar, forgettable bed, when their poses were less perfect, less precise.
Or, there could have been anger, harsh words spoken in the ride over, that may be continued later, or swallowed down deeply with a tall glass of something red, words that will swirl and sway, and decay, words that are not allowed to have a say in such a picture of perfection.
A young wife will later tear this moment out carefully from a magazine that she stowed away in her purse, lifted off the communal table at the doctor’s office, the one that told her not yet, its not time just yet.
She will pin it up above the mirror where she would stare everyday at her face, at her smile, at her imperfections, and she would look for herself, for himself, for themselves in the picture, in their lives, in their faces, and smiles, and imperfections. “Why can’t we be like them?” she will ask on the hard days, the wrinkled days, the days when she cries in her hands and curses him, and them, ripping the picture down, tearing it, blaming the two people who made it all look so easy.
“They will never make a statue of us.”
Us :: Regina Spektor