Today I'm listening to acoustic Motorhead songs on Youtube, and I've bitten off all my lipgloss as I fight a growling stomach, a really bad cough and the urge to laugh as Lochlan quotes William Blake and juggles and tries to keep his rhythm in spite of so much distraction.
So..who can juggle to Motorhead? I think it's probably a thing, like licking one's own elbow.
I talked to Ben this morning. He's going to be home next month. He says it all casual-like, as if we are talking about the weather (we did that too) and then he pauses and asks if I heard him because I'm sort of dropping the phone and running around in circles in super fast-forward mode because coffee + good news.
I come back and he's all self-conscious and silent.
Did you say next month? Is that like three weeks early?
Yeah. Look, can I talk to Loch?
No! Talk to me! Jesus, you're always so fast to get off the phone, Ben!
There's a lineup of people I need to talk to, to verify that you are doing well.
So ask me instead and save time.
You tell such sweet little lies, Bee. I never believe you. How are you?
Fine, I lie. My lip starts to quiver.
Sweet, tiny little liar, he accuses gently. Talk to me, Bee.
I think you fucked up, Benny. This would have been easier if I had aligned with the Devil while you were away.
He lets out a long breath. No, Bridget, it wouldn't have.
Status quo then. Why didn't we leave it alone?
It's a natural inclination. I'm secure in my beliefs that you needed this time with Lochlan as much as I needed it to myself.
Great.
It is, actually. You'll see. Want to put Sammy on for me, babe?
Sure. Fine.
Hey. Don't do that. September something. I'll be there. I'll be home. Love you. So much, Bridget.
The thought makes my head all jello-y-weird like it always did when Ben would come home after a long absence. As if I couldn't place if it were dread, excitement or just sheer joy. I'll go with a mix of all three.
I'm going to spend the rest of the day trying to lick my own elbow. My luck is changing, so you never know.
