The Instructions

(On the floor: boards, screws, an incomprehensible diagram.)

MOI

Step one: “Insert tenon A into mortise B.” There is no tenon A. There’s a bag labelled “A” containing a B.

Step two: “If step one succeeded, go to step three.” And if it failed? Silence. The instructions abandon me in my hour of need.

The little man in the diagram is smiling. At every step, he smiles. He’s finished his furniture. He’s mocking me.

Step seven: “Ask a loved one for help.” There it is. Seven steps to tell me I’m alone.

I have a loved one. He’s depicted at step seven, with an Allen key. But he’s a drawing too.

(He screws something in, at random. It holds.)

MOI

…It holds. I don’t know what it is, but it holds. Maybe that’s life: screwing things in at random, and having them hold anyway.

Step eight: “Congratulations.” No. Not “congratulations.” Survivors don’t congratulate each other.

(He sits on the object. The object holds. He, a little less.)

MOI

Right. It’s a stool. I wanted a bookcase. But it’s a very good stool.