My eyes are puffy and my heart seems to be beating at the wrong speed.
Sometimes, melancholy feels like hunger. But waking up this morning with the pit of my stomach hollow and burning, I wished it was breakfast I needed. I hugged my pillow and took off what was left of last night’s mascara with some leftover tears. It was far too early for such white-flag behavior.
Caramia played on the shower CD player. Why, why, why, why? It didn’t help. Putting it on repeat didn’t help either, but you know what they say: Self-pity is the spice of life.
I let it play one more time as I toweled off.
Sir Hal purred up at me from the top drawer of the bureau. I rolled my eyes and scooped up a handful of displaced unmentionables from the floor. "You’ve gotta stop nesting in my underwear drawer." I flipped through hangers in the closet, stopping at the black baby tee with i like presents in small white lettering.
Maybe today it should say, i like to make the same mistakes.
I swallowed my vitamins with cold water and then patted a bit of it on my eyes for good measure. Though, really, puffy eyes wouldn’t trigger any questions this morning at work; Tuesday’s happy hour had been significantly… extended. I have vague recollections of Courvoisier and Ladies Man jokes.
Upset came later, with vodka hiccups and the question, "What are you thinking RIGHT NOW?" My own answer made me feel frustrated and sad and foolish. I hung up the phone, cried until I slept, then slept until being on-time for work was all but impossible.
Which brings us to now.