Unforgettable Night

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, he moved in. His boxes of stuff had preceded him. They filled the apartment like silent masters, as if they had signed the lease themselves. That night, he'd slept on top of a towel he'd laid flat on the wooden floor, surrounded by towers of cardboard and newly settled dust. His forearm ached the next morning from the weight of his head, and the pain in his neck crippled him for at least ten minutes before he'd managed to get out of "bed." He would go on to sleep that way for a week. The boxes waited. They made up a paper-smelling, looming maze inside the apartment, and if he'd had the ability to feel at the time, he would've grown to love weaving in and out of those narrow corners.