"Get Down" by Rebecca Clingman
Another like that: I remember the lounge with the big glass windows, and the piano, and the veritable fleet of couches. Despite them I am curled up on the floor by the vending machine, being sad, but not being sad about being sad, because you are there doing the same thing. We’re wallowing. Once, at three in the morning another person finds us there, and we all play air hockey, and laugh like maniacs.
And so this won’t seem strange to you: I associate the word “floor” with comfort. For us, “getting down on the floor” is not dancing. “Flooring it” is not gunning the accelerator. Flooring it, to us, holds a closer-to-literal meaning. To us it means, Get your guts on the floor. Get your stomach and your heart and your intestines and your kidneys as close to the center of the earth as you can, wherever along its surface you happen to be. I think we started lying on the floor as a therapeutic—almost ritualistic--measure in sophomore year of college, but I can’t be sure. From then on, anyway, we brought our activities down with us. We would draw, listen to music, cry, laugh, sleep, and, most importantly, talk. It was often easier down there, below the radar. We could say anything, without even the embarrassment of another person’s gaze. After all, we simply looked up at the ceiling, and if we spilled our guts, they didn’t have far to fall. Whenever we’ve been apart, we have also “floored” over skype or text, and it’s not quite the same, but it’s not bad either. In a pinch, it’ll do. At some point, though, I’ll have to find my way back to a floor that has you on it.