A Cocktail For One, Please.
This is what she reads on page 80, "Instead of after-work cocktails, they would make after-work love, sometimes on the bed and somtimes on the floor; somtimes it was ten o'clock before they even roused themselves and strolled into the gentle evening streets for dinner..."
She puts the book down and rolls over on to her side to cry into her pillow. And moves deeper under her covers. Her feet go back and forth, trying to decide how much she likes the room they have to be alone, and she thinks she likes it. But then cries again, remembering. She never liked to snuggle before, prefering to push away and have her own side of the bed, demarking the space by how many slats of the bedpost belonged to her side, counting with exasperation.
The weekend looms in front of her. The keys are in her hand. On the counter. In her hand. On. The. Counter.
Tomorrow, snow again. Not this clear sunlight piercing cold into her living room. Two bells on the tree in front her house, ringing clear: stay, leave, wait, pause, don't. She prefers driving in the snow for the first time in her life. Not being able to see the road far ahead of her, the snow misting the shapes of bridges, trucks, roads. The edges of everything blurred into each other.
When she pauses, she gasps. Press play. Watch the edges blur. 5:00 is not too early for cocktails, she supposes. Let the snow fall.
She puts the book down and rolls over on to her side to cry into her pillow. And moves deeper under her covers. Her feet go back and forth, trying to decide how much she likes the room they have to be alone, and she thinks she likes it. But then cries again, remembering. She never liked to snuggle before, prefering to push away and have her own side of the bed, demarking the space by how many slats of the bedpost belonged to her side, counting with exasperation.
The weekend looms in front of her. The keys are in her hand. On the counter. In her hand. On. The. Counter.
Tomorrow, snow again. Not this clear sunlight piercing cold into her living room. Two bells on the tree in front her house, ringing clear: stay, leave, wait, pause, don't. She prefers driving in the snow for the first time in her life. Not being able to see the road far ahead of her, the snow misting the shapes of bridges, trucks, roads. The edges of everything blurred into each other.
When she pauses, she gasps. Press play. Watch the edges blur. 5:00 is not too early for cocktails, she supposes. Let the snow fall.
posted by Katie at 1:42 PM
4 Comments:
Oh, honey.
Worrying, and holding you in my thoughts.
I used to read your blog all the time a year ago..then you stopped writing and I always wondered what happened to you, your partner, your child. I see you are back to writing. I don't know you. I don't know what's going on...but I hope you find your way out of this darkness.
Ah hon... you have the sweetest way with words. You seem to be so gentle... hang in there.
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