I chased wakefulness today when I would have been better off chasing starlight. I froze to pieces, I got yelled at, and I finished the day in abject, utter defeat.
Because duh, it's Monday. Is everything in retrograde or is it just me.
I parked my jeep (in the woods. Getting better at four-low, I am) and walked into the house, right through the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of scotch and kept walking right out the back door, across the lawn to the gazebo, where I went inside, hit the heater button and then sat down on the floor in my work dress and heavy nonslip shoes. Took a big long burning drink of scotch and then lay down on my back, staring up at the copper ceiling and I let myself cry. I let myself feel a little sorry for her, for me, I mean, and then I stopped crying and tried to be mad. I'm not good at turning helplessness into anger, though and mostly I look like a three-year-old, just up from a nap, stomping her feet at surely the most ridiculous of injustices.
Ben comes outside, frowns at the scotch and asks if everything is okay. He would take the scotch but he prefers not to touch it. That's fine. Right now I prefer he doesn't touch it either. It's for me.
You alright?
I take a huge swig again and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Bridget had a bad day.
(Stomp, stomp.)
He laughs. Oh, did she? Maybe she'd like to talk about it.
Nope.
(Stomp.)
Talk is better than anaesthetizing herself. The laughter's gone and the life lesson remains. He waits. Three minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
She knows. I hand him the bottle, tightly capped. Sorry, Benny. Days like this I want to quit too. And make everyone happy.
Then why don't you?
Because I don't want him to win.