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She constantly said cliches lately. One of them was "losing weight is not hard - it's just boring as hell." She also opined that "not drinking isn't hard, it's just - well, you got to bed early."
The speaker - the little one she bought when she was buying a new life - was on. She enjoyed the new sensation of playing music that she hadn't heard five billion times before. It rankled her pride always that he didn't like her music. She often wondered if that was a dealbreaker. For her, it should have been. She didn't really know what kind of music he played because he definitely was not a reciprocator.
She tried harder at every venture - except the subtle ways. The endless videos she watched on avoidant attachment scared the fuck out of her - seeming to indicate that it was going to be a battle of who could care less and that he would eventually romanticize other connections and pull away for good.
So be it. She had already drank through her dark night of the soul. It was going to be like her or not like her. She existed.
That alone was a victory that a tattoo commemorated. She recalls now telling him the real reason she'd gotten it and being mortified to say it out loud. Later, in Florida, she realized he had just not told her he knew exactly what she was talking about.
Those sorts of things warmed her like an LED lightbulb.
So, it was new now. She was taking the bullshit glasses off and recognizing that this wasn't going to be some great love where he shines smoke up her ass and they giggle and fuck until blood was drawn. Instead, it was going to be maybe sort of a shallow surface skimming that she accepted because she loved being in his company and would bask as long as he allowed her.
She skipped a lot of the songs that she knew - preferring to have the new. She wasn't aware of what things were new songs to him or old ones because she didn't ask and he didn't offer.
Time for a spinach salad with ginger dressing and hope for the best.
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