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That fucking symbolic day was over. Thank god.
The junkers were picking up some leavings from the neighbors in the pouring February rain.
The cats were inside of course. One was asleep and one was eating.
Who cared. No one cared.
The rain was perfect for her mood at least.
She had finally deleted his contact out of her phone, and it was like putting away the pink and red heart decorations after the day - something to be done.
He had stopped kissing her with an open mouth so long ago that she didn''t remember when she just accepted it as the price to pay to have someone brilliant hang out with her. She loved doing what she wasn't supposed to do anymore - think of the snapshots of him in her head - the fluted glass from the historic society sale, his arms, the "I care", all his naps.
It still was so very hard to go into the tv room. for some reason his ghost was in there the most - well, besides the room whose door she never opened. Fuck, she loved this man, and she knew all the ways to get rid of him, but her brain just wouldn't let him go.
Drinking helped. She wasn't quite willing to become the alcoholic she was working on becoming though. Besides, it got kind of boring. Today, she had sobbed twice just thinking about it - losing a potential and losing it without even a word - or so many words.
When had she hated herself so much?
It must have been when she failed with the first one. She kept pinning it down as the shame and pain of having to get kicked out of eden because she had kissed a snake. But being alive, it still occurred theoretically.
She wasn''t sure hoe much it would be called living - what she was doing - but she supposed that the breathing and the beating of the heart counted.
She was grateful he had given her Wordle. It was also something useful she supposed that she could now understand that she gave away the farm and stripped naked and spread her legs every time she fell in love. The terrifying part was she knew that it was entwined with love and wasn''t sure she could stop it.
She wondered if perhaps he was the same way? She wondered all the time about him and what he had thought. It would always be a mystery, and stories could be written and guessed at - but nothing ever known. It was too heavy. She'd light the candle that smelled like lemon pledge furniture polish.
Remembering her face in all the photos of the time - the sheer happiness of being in his company, well it sucked now.
But she wondered if the withholding of strong kisses was because he got triggered like she did just opposite - would always ice up at the first thought of the forbidden vulnerability.
One never knew. One would never know. It could only be guessed at.
She had had about five cups of tea and stared out the window watching it all come down as her brain whirled and whirled.
If only she could watch tv.
The only books she had were heavy. Joan Didion depressed her - it was like updike but as a woman so far.
It would get better.
it had to.
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