If you ever thought things were perfect, that the universe smooths itself out and everything is suddenly right again and I was under a lucky star, you'd be mistaken.
I'm just trying to keep up with things, with what I want to talk about or what I plan to deal with first, or how I've been steered. It's all right here, there's too many words, it won't make any sense if I rush.
Our anniversary was capped with a trip to the planetarium and then a lovely late romantic dinner at the devastatingly exclusive revolving restaurant that spins slowly above the city lights. It was the completion of my sky gift. It ended a week we began on the floor in the back porch painting the moon and stars on our mural with glow in the dark paint so that the kids will be surprised when they come home on Wednesday.
And then we went to bed to celebrate some more and I pushed him too far and he walked away and hit something and I slid a little farther away down into a hole. He came back full of apologies but he never bothered to stop whispering so I could hear him from that hole.
It's okay. I'll get out of it someday. I don't know when. I can't see where his limits end and mine begin. He says I have none. I have them, he just doesn't understand the difference between a good hurt and a bad one, but I think he is ashamed of me anyway.
He's burning pages before I can write on them now, tearing them out. Such a hurry, always.
Hush, Bridget. Not like that.
But I want it this way.
No...no, you don't.
