The Artful Homemaker


Five hundred words only get written if you very slowly and systematically put yourself in front of the great white screen and let your brain slowly ooze down your neck and through your body until it can reach your fingertips and you can frantically tippie tap and pitty pat it away.

That isn’t exactly the scientific process, but I’m pretty sure that’s about how it goes.  It’s just that simple.  You just put your lips together and blow.

I am thinking about you.  It is a small thing, where I think my little sister is lovely and kind, but she gets a number from the valet boys whereas I open the door for them twenty-times with not so much as a how-do-you-do.  I don’t think any of those valet boys and I would have meant to be, and of course, my little sister is blameless.  The whole thing just carries a sourness in my mind, though.  Harkened back to childhood against my will.  It is a jealousy that isn’t against anything but my own hopes.

I looked at Mr. Rochester’s old, entirely defunct Facebook page where pseudonyms upon pseudonyms once made for some sort of inside joke I could probably puzzle out if I tried.  There’s no sign of him there.  I could also, probably, dig up the old youtube videos he did.  I won’t, though, as I already feel invasive as it is, kicking old tires and digging old bones.  I just wanted one bit of the old bird in the hand, the snide conversation that created this little glass cake cover and sat it over us on our shared pedestal.  I just wanted to remember how it was when I could make him laugh and it felt like, though I was 1000% wrong on this, I was the only girl who knew that trick.

I miss the thing about writing with the guy where at least for the time it took to read and the time it took to respond, I was Queen Shit.  I was it.  I was the recipient of the attention, the gatekeeper of the correspondence, I was the muse, I was the charm.  That’s about as narcotic a thing as I know of and I have gone without a hit of it for a long, long, long while.

I ache for it, really.  Some specialized attention.  Some badinage.  Some good times.  This is how I get myself into trouble.  This is the cycle come round again where I pretend I don’t know that there’s a wall up ahead that I am barrelling towards.  A real wall or a wall I have imagined is placed there, it doesn’t matter, it will still break my face when I fail to brake.    The body issues wall.  Where I know why she gets the valet’s number, and I get the valet’s complete disinterest.

In certain dreams, he squeezes me.  Not so tight that I can’t breathe, but just enough to know that he is there for me and no one else.  In certain dreams, I squeeze him back.

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