The Carpet on the Wall

The carpet looked expensive, but gaudy. She hung it on her wall rather than lay it across the floor because stepping on it would be an absolute tragedy. She was a terrible person, and worse, she had terrible taste. But that body.

Really, her taste didn’t matter. What mattered was his taste in her. He didn’t know the first thing about what made one carpet different from another. He only knew that she had an ideal hip-to-waste ratio, ample tits, a slender neck devoid of lines, and was younger than I was. Better than I was, because his judgment came down to purity of skin rather than purity of soul.

Judgment. I would not judge her. She didn’t deserve judgment. The second thought, the scrutiny of comparison. Not by me. Maybe by him, but not by me.

I smiled, gripping my husband’s arm, and said, “It really is a lovely carpet.”

“Thank you!” the woman said. “I paid a dreadful lot for it, but it just spoke to me, you know?”

When she returned my smile, her front teeth were incongruously imperfect, and perfect in their incongruity. I turned my eyes to the ugly carpet.




Day 185’s three writing prompt categories were, “Younger, better model,” “Expensive carpet,” and, “Judgment.”

I mean, you’ve got to have a nice wall-carpet, right?

– H.

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