Perfume Taste

The tap water tasted sweet and after I noticed a perfume taste and my lips went numb for a second. Only a second. I thought it was strange but I was vaguely hungover and had just drank a pot of coffee in the last twenty minutes and maybe I had no idea what was actually happening. I drank another glass of water and my lips and throat tingled again and I thought that maybe I should call the town or talk to a neighbor and see if their water was poison also. I took the glass in the bathroom and tried the tap water there. It tasted like water, not perfume. It wasn't the town's issue, it was the house. 

Of course it was. Goddamn ruined ceiling. Goddamned electrical. Goddamned perfume water. The house was trying to kill me. 

I could call the landlord. I owed him money. Even if I didn't he would take two weeks to get here if he came at all. The ceiling had been ruined for years and I was holding rent until it was fixed, but even that didn't seem to motivate him. In February the water main froze and burst and instead of coming to look at it he spent four days arguing with the town that it was their problem and not his and I bought gallons of water and boiled them for bathwater and dishes and eventually the town caved and tore open my driveway and fixed the main. 

I had called the building inspector, even though the "no snitching" side of me screamed at me the entire time. He came. Looked at the exploded ceiling. Looked at the cracked foundation. Looked at the mold I had found and tried desperately to eradicate. He said he'd get a hold of the landlord and it would get taken care of. Months ago. The house was trying to kill me.

I would use the bathroom sink for drinking. Or the wine on the counter. That worked also. 

I briefly wondered if the landlord had done something to the pipes, the sink. If he was trying to poison me. If he was letting the house fall apart so I would move, but I wasn't, so now maybe he thought of a new way to get rid of me. Maybe, I thought.

I poured a glass of wine and put a record on. My lips had stopped tingling and the wine settled my stomach and the music settled my brain. Chopin. I could see his fingers dance, flit, live lives and never die and I sat on the couch and closed my eyes.

The house wasn't trying to kill me.

The landlord wasn't trying to kill me.

Chopin wasn't trying to heal me.

It was all in my head. I was the house. The ruined ceiling. The failing electrical. The cracked foundation. The perfume taste. I was the house.

No, asshole, I thought. You're just an idiot.