Sin City and the Spinster

This morning I woke up with no reason to move quietly, quickly. I turned on the news, watched too long and at a high volume. I disrupted only myself. I ate dinner with my parents, rushing through the plate of Aromatic Shrimp [#47], driving directly home. I even took the shortcut down Tustin Ranch Road. I flipped on the TV to drown out the silence, forcing myself to sit through the E! True Hollywood Story, something to drive me through the rest of the hour. I paced the hallway - should I do laundry? finish packing the holiday decorations? pen my thank you notes? Only a few minutes can be suppressed that way. I opted for a hot bath, time to relax and think and read. I spent two hours bubbling in a hot bath, the latest page-turner on punctuation in hand. But even as I wile away the time, there is no tapping at the door "are you still awake in there"; a faint call from the other room "love you, Cutes"; no visit from a grey cat, who balances delicately on the edge of the tub, tail fully submerged, blissfully unaware; no orange cat, who pushes aside my lazy elbow, to drink the water and lick the bubbles, shaking his head when they explode in his nose. No one came calling. I picked up the phone - but I have no interest in talking to anyone right now, except to waste the last of the hours of the night before I can commit myself to bed, force myself to sleep. Shall I take a 'sleep-aid' pill? Shall I read from a text book? Shall I knit ten more rows, just enough to cut the clutter of the quiet and force my eyes into tiredness?

As I sat down at the computer tonight I realized how much he reigns me in. Guides my days on strong rails, nudging me down the track to where I need to go. I wake early, move swiftly not to disturb him. I work hard and fast and drive directly home to see him. He cooks me dinner and sits next to me during a movie. He listens to my long-winded stories about work and jerks and Christian Facism and punctuation. He turns on the washing machine and double-checks which items are "dryer safe". He tucks me into bed, even when he's working long nights alone in the studio. He desperately wants to be the tortured artist, but the reality is that he is far too content with his life to even frown. He takes care of me, nurtures me, coaches me, encourages me.

And even though I know he is resting well right now in his Las Vegas suite, full from an expense account filet mignon and 600 quarters poorer from the seductive slot machines, I can hardly think of rest. My mind is full and my body is tired. I am exhausted from the 'missing' and can't wait until I can wake up in the morning with only hours left until he returns.