Hiding Under The Living Room Table / Languor / A short story + Artwork

I have been hiding under the living-room table for almost a thousand years. I have hidden in many other places around the house, but this was my favourite spot. The living-room table. And a marvellous table it was, with it's precariously polished, beautifully carved legs that hung down like the limbs of a black jungle-god. By now everyone knows where I am, for they've figured out where I spend most of my time. Hiding under furniture. They call me furniture man. One day while I was concentrating on my usual hiding posture I was surprised to see a little girl sneaking in from behind me, her eyes big and wide with fear. I asked her why she was where she was. She said she was running away from her captors, and I peeked outside and I saw her entire life in the shape of a jackal scavenging through the room, in search of its little vessel. Fuck off, I said.

Why am you here? The jackal snarled at me.
Why am I here? It's a valid question. I could jolly well be outside, basking under sunshine, running around in circles, enjoying myself. It is because I still enjoy myself, outside or not, and rather immensely at that, in my little dim rectangular cave under the living-room table. There is a difference between isolation and solitude. Here, I have all that I need. Outside, a face among a thousand more, I feel isolated. Sometimes, I sneak outside and merge with everyone else to keep them happy. But wherever I go, I am always under the living-room table.

The only time I feel I should abandon my shelter is when I am in love. When I am in love, I falter. I no longer wish to be by myself, but rather with (and very awkwardly so) the one in question. I am like a cowardly dog, too afraid to come out from under the sofa to take his little scrumptious treat. I am afraid, perhaps, of heartbreak, and perhaps I am not afraid at all, but merely apathetic. Or perhaps I am afraid of dependence. I falter.

Her hair is a mesh of ebony and sunshine, almost the shade of her eyes. I remember watching her walking by, I remember dreaming. She remains beautiful, she remains graceful, while I remain untrodden, silent, staring. She is also afraid, she is indeed hiding. She is yet to pull me out. When we are together our tables bump against each other. She knows nothing yet, but might just be curious. I may be curious. I may have faltered. But I have faltered while sitting under the living-room table. And I have loved under the living-room table. And to this day, I explode into a thousand meteor showers under the living-room table, only wishing I could just crawl out.