A Cup of Eat


Ahh, her ladyship says shit.

I am not going to get there fast enough if I try and get my dear girl back out onto the street and resolving her troubles.

I have to find a way to make checking on a storeroom you suspect has been burgled and discover that it has been exactly that, burgled, interesting. It is sitting with me, this next scene on the road to product and I have no clue how to advance it properly. I have the outline, but the words seem absolutely stuck to one another. The names of nouns bend into verbs and adjectives shatter and slip below the surface so they can only be perceived in black light. Turn off all your garish electronics and peer this way, the words will hang in the air, a bluish white.

There is no internet. Again. I don’t know why so I don’t know when this post will actually appear.

But it’s 11:30p.m as I craft it.

Here’s today’s agenda after the fact. I worked all day at the shop. It was uneventful. Another new, nice older lady whom I can nod kindly at when she tells me of her children and her love of dogs. A woman who has only negative and ill-informed opinions about anything I care about. An older lady who is absolutely marvelous and doesn’t deserve my no-internet snark.

I ate poorly again because I am driving around on my own and walking around and I’m just on enough of an edge that fast, easy, paper-wrapped satisfaction sounds far better than a tupperwared microwaved disaster. But I have to cook something and bring it otherwise I’m shelling out as much as I’m taking in for fancy, salt-encrusted sandwiches. I am starting to crave a salad if that says anything about the state of things. I spoke with my mentor/part-time boss and she’s got good advice for me. She’s good about things, keeping the right things in the right place. I can last a summer doing both, though I suspect more change is coming. I don’t know this. I just suspect it.

There’s more general stuff – my sister’s hyper-concern for my father, the fact that I completely missed my cousin’s text because my phone died and we were supposed to meet and I feel hyper-ashamed of that. So much so that I feel a bit frozen about just explaining that everything’s nuts since I got this extra job.

It all feels like work. All of it.

What wasn’t work was watching you work. Cooly, earnestly, perfectly in tune without effort , beer(s) in hand. Cracking wise and laughing. I, who for so very long have craved an easy wit, can admit to a bit of delight. Lustful delight. That was a nice thing after a day on my feet, to feel well and truly knocked off of them.

Ah, back to the drawing board. The girl is not the girl. I am the girl. I crave your lips, the mind behind them, the body below them, the spirit beyond them. I lay very still to sleep.

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