Choosing wallpaper is scary. The choice made in that moment can and will change the remainder of your natural life. Let me expand, please. Sid and I went to The Wallpaper Store last Tuesday. Yes, that is actually the name of the store. Sid, my “sort of” boyfriend, insisted we go on a Tuesday afternoon to avoid crowds. Sid isn’t fond of crowds of people. So while looking through wallpaper samples for our future townhouse, he turns to me with a vague expression and says, “The two coldest things on Earth are Antarctica and your heart.” And then he walked away.
I hate wallpaper.



Sid and I met in a Barnes & Noble when I was 19. He was skimming through books in the self-help section when I first noticed him. To be honest, he looked entirely revolting. I was standing a significant 30 feet away, and it was pretty evident that he exuded a stench. Sid wore a grimy white tee shirt, dark denim jeans tucked into his worn combat boots, and a barely-there goatee. His bloodshot eyes glanced towards me, and he couldn’t have been more appealing. The rest is your typical love story - at least until that Tuesday afternoon.

I didn’t blame myself for the incident; I blamed the wallpaper. Wallpaper is the definition of pressure. It stared Sid and I down - ready to pounce. I guess he cracked. Boys always crack unexpectedly, I suppose. Or maybe he imploded. Maybe his brain just couldn’t handle the psychological burden of all that is wallpaper. I did see him wince just before as if a jolt had surged up his leg.
…
Unlikely.



I later went through all these theories at a local diner with my perverse and mocking best friend, Georgie. She approved of my home décor hatred but then suggested, “Maybe he found out about your gazelle obsession.”
I collect gazelle figurines, but I wouldn’t necessarily call it an obsession.
“No, I never told him anything about my personal life. We sat around and watched French documentaries together most of the time.”
“Clementine, the only thing people know about you is that you’re scary.”
I nodded.

Our mirthless and drab waitress appeared to refill Georgie’s coffee mug when Georgie curiously inquired, “Doesn’t this place make you want to kill yourself?” She sluggishly replied, “It’s okay here. But mostly I just feel like poisoning everybody.”

Turning back to the conversation, I reminded Georgie, “So what do you think?”
“Well,” she sipped at her steaming beverage, “I have one last question before I make any conclusions.”
“Alright.”
“What music did you listen to in the car on the way to The Wallpaper Store?”
I condemningly scowled at her across the laminate table. “I’m serious. Stop messing around.”
“I am being serious! Just answer the question.”
“How could I possibly remember that?”
“Come on. Think about it,” she eagerly insisted.
I attempted to visualize the situation again.
“All I can remember is that The Velvet Underground was playing.“
“Which song?”
“Does it really matter?” I groaned.
“YES.”
“Pale Blue Eyes.”
…
“Interesting.”
“Why? What does it mean? What does that mean?”
“I have no idea,” she shrugged.
“You piece of cr*p!” I chucked a ketchup packet at Georgie while she bent over in hysterics.
And the intrigue of the conversation decreased from that point.


The morning after the diner discussion, I awoke in clarity.
"Wallpaper is so…" I thought, "boring."
*DELETE*