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gunwithoutmusicJust a little something I've been working on. Not even sure what it is yet.
* * *
I’ve never been the type to put my face under the water while I shower. It feels like I’m drowning.
Molly ate the last cupcake. I wasn’t upset about it; I told her that. The cupcakes were only okay, anyway. I’m not a fan of overly sweet things. But my mother made them for me, so it’s only fair that I should have gotten the last one. But it wasn’t a big deal. Just one of those things.
-
“She says you’re changing,” he says to me completely unsolicited, his voice dripping with that fake concern that he always likes to trot out as a defense against his gossiping. “She says you’re going to realize you’re too good for her.”
I center the thought. Maybe I am too good for her. Not yet, but maybe I will be. I let it pass out of my mind. “She’s capable of change, too,” I say. “And I love her. I’ll never leave her.”
“So you are changing.”
“I guess. I don’t think so. Incrementally, maybe.”
“Enough for her to notice.”
“Enough for you to notice?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
-
I rinse my hair. It’s Tuesday, so I don’t have to wash it if I don’t want to. My stylist says that it’s bad for my hair to wash it every day. But I’m never sure. I put a ton of products in it to keep it to a dull roar. Is water enough to wash that away?
It’s Tuesday. I scrub my body for longer than I need to, feeling the water scald my skin. It’s not hot enough to strip my skin from my bones. But it’s hot enough to dull the ache in my shoulder for a few seconds, and that’s a few seconds that I have learned to cherish every morning.
I take stock of the day ahead because I can’t ever stop thinking.
-
The water is brackish and violent today.
-
She says I’m changing. She says it to me this time. It makes her happy, she says, to see how much I’ve grown recently. It makes her sad, she says, to think that I’m going to be better than her one day. To think that I’ll outgrow her while she stagnates.
“I can’t imagine leaving you,” I say as the thoughts dance through my mind.
-
I tear through a packet of cookies and a pint of ice cream in a single evening. So much for changing. This is why I can’t keep these sorts of things in the house. She doesn’t see my guilt, and I pretend that I don’t see the hint of a smile creeping its way across her mouth when she sees me backslide.
Maybe I’m not changing; maybe I’m not better. I can’t even remember if I actively pushed for these changes or if they’re just... happening.
I had more confidence for a little while.
-
Two minutes. That’s how long you’re supposed to go. But I think I’m doing pretty well for myself considering that I never used to brush my teeth in the morning. Too busy was always my excuse. Running late, or something, like I really didn’t have two minutes to spare. Just lazy, though, if I decided to be honest with myself.
Which I frequently am, even if I ignore that honesty more often than not.
-
“Well, what do you think?”
“I don’t really know. I like it, I guess. Certainly seems easier than actually trying to broach the subject. Definitely seems like something I would have done before.”
“What does that mean? You want to try being direct?”
“I’d like to try being direct. I’ve been working on that more lately, since we got the new place. You know, new place, new life, another chance to start again, be a better person. Avoiding discussions sort of feels like the wrong way to go about things.”
“So be direct, then.”
“I said I’d like to try. But just because I’d like to doesn’t mean I don’t know how it will go. I don’t think she believes the same thing as me about a new place being a chance to start over.”
“No? She hasn’t changed at all?”
“Not a bit. Well, I guess that’s not true. She’s been coming to bed earlier than she used to. It’s probably good for her, but it also kind of stresses me out.”
“Why on earth—?”
“Because she’s changing my routine, too. I’m used to her coming to bed at a certain time, when I’m deep asleep and don’t wake up from her moving around. Now she’s hit that perfect time where I’m not quite asleep yet and her coming in wakes me up. And how ridiculous does it sound to ask her if she can adjust her sleep schedule to come in maybe thirty minutes later? I don’t want to discourage her from getting the sleep she needs, even if it messes up mine.”
“No? Then what are we even doing here?”
“It’s not enough. I feel a drift happening. It’s been happening ever since she first said something. I can’t let it keep going like this.”
-
I’ve never been buried alive, but I have come close to drowning several times. I imagine that the feeling is quite similar, knowing that you’re running out of air and feeling trapped with no way out. Take the crushing weight of the water pulling you down under and replace it with the crushing lightness of the breathable air leaving your space. Try to push through while the world closes in.
Pray for salvation and that you stay alive long enough to see it.
-
I remember a time when I didn’t have to grunt loudly every time I stood up from a chair. My birthday is coming up. It’s not a particularly special one; I’m not passing any milestones. Truth be told, sometimes I forget how many times I’ve been around the sun. The days, weeks, months, and years all start to blur together for me at this point. Forty-two doesn’t seem any different than forty-one, which didn’t seem any different from forty.
But forty-two sure feels different from twenty-two. It’s hard to remember a time before my back was always a little achy, a time when I could stay out until three o’clock in the morning and then go to work an eight-hour shift on three hours of sleep and be just fine. I would die now. Maybe literally.
I wish I could pinpoint the year that I changed, but I guess it doesn’t work that way. Each year feels no different from the last, and it’s only when we look back that we see just how different we are. In some ways, I still feel like the same person that I was when I was twenty-two. In many ways, I’m unrecognizable. It wasn’t intentional; life just happens that way.
* * *
I’ve never been the type to put my face under the water while I shower. It feels like I’m drowning.
Molly ate the last cupcake. I wasn’t upset about it; I told her that. The cupcakes were only okay, anyway. I’m not a fan of overly sweet things. But my mother made them for me, so it’s only fair that I should have gotten the last one. But it wasn’t a big deal. Just one of those things.
-
“She says you’re changing,” he says to me completely unsolicited, his voice dripping with that fake concern that he always likes to trot out as a defense against his gossiping. “She says you’re going to realize you’re too good for her.”
I center the thought. Maybe I am too good for her. Not yet, but maybe I will be. I let it pass out of my mind. “She’s capable of change, too,” I say. “And I love her. I’ll never leave her.”
“So you are changing.”
“I guess. I don’t think so. Incrementally, maybe.”
“Enough for her to notice.”
“Enough for you to notice?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
-
I rinse my hair. It’s Tuesday, so I don’t have to wash it if I don’t want to. My stylist says that it’s bad for my hair to wash it every day. But I’m never sure. I put a ton of products in it to keep it to a dull roar. Is water enough to wash that away?
It’s Tuesday. I scrub my body for longer than I need to, feeling the water scald my skin. It’s not hot enough to strip my skin from my bones. But it’s hot enough to dull the ache in my shoulder for a few seconds, and that’s a few seconds that I have learned to cherish every morning.
I take stock of the day ahead because I can’t ever stop thinking.
-
The water is brackish and violent today.
-
She says I’m changing. She says it to me this time. It makes her happy, she says, to see how much I’ve grown recently. It makes her sad, she says, to think that I’m going to be better than her one day. To think that I’ll outgrow her while she stagnates.
“I can’t imagine leaving you,” I say as the thoughts dance through my mind.
-
I tear through a packet of cookies and a pint of ice cream in a single evening. So much for changing. This is why I can’t keep these sorts of things in the house. She doesn’t see my guilt, and I pretend that I don’t see the hint of a smile creeping its way across her mouth when she sees me backslide.
Maybe I’m not changing; maybe I’m not better. I can’t even remember if I actively pushed for these changes or if they’re just... happening.
I had more confidence for a little while.
-
Two minutes. That’s how long you’re supposed to go. But I think I’m doing pretty well for myself considering that I never used to brush my teeth in the morning. Too busy was always my excuse. Running late, or something, like I really didn’t have two minutes to spare. Just lazy, though, if I decided to be honest with myself.
Which I frequently am, even if I ignore that honesty more often than not.
-
“Well, what do you think?”
“I don’t really know. I like it, I guess. Certainly seems easier than actually trying to broach the subject. Definitely seems like something I would have done before.”
“What does that mean? You want to try being direct?”
“I’d like to try being direct. I’ve been working on that more lately, since we got the new place. You know, new place, new life, another chance to start again, be a better person. Avoiding discussions sort of feels like the wrong way to go about things.”
“So be direct, then.”
“I said I’d like to try. But just because I’d like to doesn’t mean I don’t know how it will go. I don’t think she believes the same thing as me about a new place being a chance to start over.”
“No? She hasn’t changed at all?”
“Not a bit. Well, I guess that’s not true. She’s been coming to bed earlier than she used to. It’s probably good for her, but it also kind of stresses me out.”
“Why on earth—?”
“Because she’s changing my routine, too. I’m used to her coming to bed at a certain time, when I’m deep asleep and don’t wake up from her moving around. Now she’s hit that perfect time where I’m not quite asleep yet and her coming in wakes me up. And how ridiculous does it sound to ask her if she can adjust her sleep schedule to come in maybe thirty minutes later? I don’t want to discourage her from getting the sleep she needs, even if it messes up mine.”
“No? Then what are we even doing here?”
“It’s not enough. I feel a drift happening. It’s been happening ever since she first said something. I can’t let it keep going like this.”
-
I’ve never been buried alive, but I have come close to drowning several times. I imagine that the feeling is quite similar, knowing that you’re running out of air and feeling trapped with no way out. Take the crushing weight of the water pulling you down under and replace it with the crushing lightness of the breathable air leaving your space. Try to push through while the world closes in.
Pray for salvation and that you stay alive long enough to see it.
-
I remember a time when I didn’t have to grunt loudly every time I stood up from a chair. My birthday is coming up. It’s not a particularly special one; I’m not passing any milestones. Truth be told, sometimes I forget how many times I’ve been around the sun. The days, weeks, months, and years all start to blur together for me at this point. Forty-two doesn’t seem any different than forty-one, which didn’t seem any different from forty.
But forty-two sure feels different from twenty-two. It’s hard to remember a time before my back was always a little achy, a time when I could stay out until three o’clock in the morning and then go to work an eight-hour shift on three hours of sleep and be just fine. I would die now. Maybe literally.
I wish I could pinpoint the year that I changed, but I guess it doesn’t work that way. Each year feels no different from the last, and it’s only when we look back that we see just how different we are. In some ways, I still feel like the same person that I was when I was twenty-two. In many ways, I’m unrecognizable. It wasn’t intentional; life just happens that way.
