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'Twas a day.
She wonders if daft punk got their name because some British person hurled an insult, "ya daft punk ya!"
Wow. a huge maple leaf just fell. shit was getting real.
there was something about Lumpkin street in Athens she kept recalling. she loved the green fairy lights in the art academic office. she loved the normal colored fairy lights in the large facing window of the art deco - Sylvia Plath looking - Lyons apartments. Maybe she used to leave this way to go back to her parent's house when she was a college kid. It stirred up something in her, and it was still rumbling.
there was going to be a members' only rummage sale today at the historic society. she thought and fantasized about flaking on her volunteer commitment but fuck it. let's roll. She had gone to bed at 8 last night but had thought about it at 7. It wasn't like she was above having some wine (so much classier) and watching a cool French new wave flick or a Peruvian summer family saga. She just wanted to go to bed and she actually sighed when she got into the sheets - even though they still had that annoying sand feel. fuck. and of course she read and processed for a bit. let's be real.
all she talked about was you.
and how bizarre it was when you put in the variable in the model she had never ever dared try: dude doesn't love you.
she had thought it a million trillion times, but it had always been, "no girl, he's behind a wall. that's his avoidant shit from his troubled but brilliant mother and stern but amazing father. I've got my walls. I know. we'll bust out and make love and just wait a little longer."
now she was just drained.
it was rather confusing of course.
who the fuck wants to drive two hours to see some fucking
interesting distraction
maybe I'd drive forty-five minutes max.
and the family.
who the fuck goes, "what the fuck else am I doing? this family is rich, and I've got all these chips on my shoulder about money - I bet that Christmas dinner is gonna be fantastic"
but somebody does.
he had.
and she had to sit in her shit.
sit in it for seven months - drawing pictures in her playpen with it
trying every fucking way on the fucking train that her brain could get her to say it wasn't so.
"no, he had loved me inside."
"girl no."
he hadn't.
and it was weird. she was like on a fucking mission from god to bust uncommunicated situationships
but being honest
she can read her writing hugely. god so many fucking words.
she can remember that part of her that was like "I know he loves you. I know it."
she can hear that part - see that part that wrote incessantly - even here, "something's up. this doesn't feel right. I can't put my finger on it, but it seems.
he doesn't love you."
there was no tender look, a touch, a morning 'hey', a kiss on the forehead. there was more fervent mechanical lust and speedy open mouthed grasping in the beginning, but she was wrong when she chanted to herself coming back from the pizza shop in wilmington, "he doesn't like you. he doesn't like you. he doesn't like you."
"he liked me fine. he didn't love me one bit."
and clues are so mother fucking expensive to buy.
maybe she'd play a little music. that had been something that lady she liked sue Johnson had said as a way to get out of the mindhell: change the song.
and he hadn't been fucking perfect. but he knew that.
she had just not input the correct theory.
now that that was done.
it hurt a lot
and she loved him
and she was happy as the gods on Olympus (were they happy?) that she could finally put this fucking puzzle - she had done it in black ink - to fucking rest. the clues are all corrected.
let's roll.
some die.
--
she was leaving Athens. Lance was saying goodbye from his 55-th birthday bash. Later he texted her, "you know. I don't even know if I could fall in love at this age. It just feels impossible to imagine."
"well, you fucking do old man. you fucking do. by the way, I love that thing your kid does where he stays in the car until the song is over - to be loyal to the song."
"yeah, he's a cool kid."
"rock on!"
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