And I keep walking, step after step,
until the awning’s shade hits me.
I don’t stop for the day doorman,
grunting and vanishing inside.
I slept through the whole damn day.
I couldn’t take any chances.
Now it’s past one in the morning.
I’m wide-eyed, moody,
cross-legged at the foot of my bed,
heating pad wrapped around me,
sipping pinot straight from the bottle,
surrounded by candy wrappers,
with a bowl of Cream of Wheat steaming in my lap.
I keep boxes of it on deck.
But I can’t make it like Mom did.
With lumps. Perfect ones.
Mine comes out too creamy or too thick,
nothing in between.
Once, four years ago,
I got a single lump by accident.
I took one bite and cried.
I’m watching two C-list actors on my screen browsing a bookstore, about to fake-laugh their way into each other’s pants as if the economy isn’t shit and nobody’s chasing prescriptions.
Usually I binge watch gore and blood during The Fuckening—throwback slashers—but I’m extra bitchy tonight, hate-watching love and happiness instead.
The movie’s calledTorn Edges.
Already hate it.
Meet-cute in a bookstore. Total fucking cliche.
Next scene opens up with them reaching into thesamebox for thesameused copy of Wuthering Heights like we haven’t seen this shit a hundred times.
Then their fingers touch.
I snort.
“Oh no, you take it,”I mock what’s coming.
