At Least They're Committed

Wiping down the counters, starting the dishwasher, yes got off work early and I’m home alone. I toss the rag into the sink and see chocolate cake with chocolate frosting on the counter. The cake is three days old, uncovered, dried out, but old chocolate frosting is one of my guilty pleasures. I reach out to take a swipe.

“You’ve got disinfectant on your fingers, don’t do that,” the voice is stern. He steps up behind me and pushes me, more like a nudge but to me like a body slam. “Sit the fuck down TR.”

“Oh, yeah, OK. Just let me pour some wine. It does help,” I’m mumbling. “Was sure it would, tested it out thoroughly last night. It does. But my toughest day is prolly going to be Monday and I’m fairly sure I won’t be allowed to have enough to make it stop that night. Maybe they wouldn’t fix me if I’m hung over.”

Blech, it’s white and it’s not very cold. Whatever. At least I’m sitting. I gingerly peel the black tights off my body and hoist my red skirt up to my thighs . . . more comfortable is all. He lays his hands on my shoulders and presses ever-so-lightly. They’re hot. It helps. My face is cupped in my hands, my elbows on the kitchen table. I wonder if that’s still considered bad manners. I don’t care.

“I put the ornament of you in the new car,” I say.

“I know. I was there.”

“Oh, right, you said it looked OK.” My hands still smell of disinfectant. “I sent out the highlights to a bunch more people today.”

“Good.”

“Marcia wrote back and said ‘thanks and happy new year,’ I thanked her and said happy new year back and said I think 2014 is going to be a good year.”

“Nice,” I can tell by his tone that he’s got one of those concerned smiles on his face, as if ‘gee that’s swell, but you’re still fucked up.’

“She emailed back, ‘You are the eternal optimist! And we love that about you . . . ‘” and I thought that was very sweet of her, so I emailed her back saying so. I thought it was kind of funny, too.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “People do care about you, for good or bad.”

I chuckle.

He kneels next to me and looks into my eyes, in a way he hasn’t since a few years ago when I was put in the cold room, when I saw myself as a child.

“It hurts to be me.”

“It’s OK, little girl, I promise you it will be OK.” He stands up, grabs a spoon and scoops old chocolate frosting off the dried out cake and hands it to me. I laugh and cry, take the spoon with one hand while wiping my tears with the other.

“Thank you, I know, I know.”