wasn’t doing very well Saturday night. Nothing had or hadn’t happened. Everything was basically the same. All that was different was my ability to cope, to be tough.
The days had stretched me thin. My people needed a lot from me and I’d risen to the challenge, stretched and flexed and gave and gave, but I didn’t take enough care. I was stupid. I forgot to be gentle with me and then I snapped like a dried twig. I felt rabid and unleashed.
I got home late Friday night, Peyton in tow, exhausted. I put my baby to bed fully clothed and texted The Neighbor as he’d asked me to do earlier, but I didn’t get the response I wanted. He said he was too tired and “sorry”.
He wouldn’t be coming over.
I couldn’t handle it and quietly crumpled in on myself as I kissed my baby goodnight and tucked in the covers around the little body which mine created a handful of years ago. Looking at Peyton’s face I felt ashamed at my own needs and wished I was stronger. I quietly slipped out of the night-light lit room and texted back that I’d had a terrible day and an insignificant spat with a best girlfriend.
I peeled off my clothes and got ready for bed, pulled back my sheets and stood up straight when I heard a noise. Was it the door? He is reliably unreliable in a reliable kind of way. I’d known my text might bring him over, but I also knew I couldn’t depend on that particular response. He can be so caring, so tender and other nights distant and walled off. I never know what to expect from him. I feel simultaneously blind and dumb and powerfully confident.
I went and let him in.
I sat on my bed in my panties and a tank top and he lay on his side, his head held in his hand. “The thing is, TN, is I had a really crappy day. I’ve really spread myself thin the past two days and my mentor left today and I organized a big going away thing for her.” My voice caught in my throat. “Oh god, I’m going to cry,” I said as tears slipped out. “Fuck.”
He quietly looked at me and patted my arm and squeezed my shoulder consolingly. “I’m sorry you had a bad day.” He sat up on his knees, pushed his crotch towards me. “Here. Pet your security penis.”
I laughed at his efforts to lift my spirits and did as he suggested. He pushed me down and latched onto a breast. I let the pain distract me for a second, but my mood wasn’t so easily lifted. He said more kind words, lay with me, but eventually he left after tucking me in and leaving a sweetness behind. I slowly drifted off to sleep. Alone.
Saturday morning I woke up and remembered my dream. I texted, “I dreamt we watched Idiocracy twice. Can we do that tonight?”
His reply:
“Nope. I got other stuff tonight.”
I shut down. Hard. I seethed with resentment and disdain. “You know me, Hy,” he always loves to say, “I hate making plans.”
I texted back. “Oh, right. Have fun.”
He replied. “K.”
I saw red. I wasn’t even upright in bed, yet, and still I felt angry and venomous. I realized then that my mood hadn’t improved from the night before, if anything it’d deteriorated. This wasn’t rational, clearly. I picked up my phone again striving for balance:
