Eight hours uninterrupted. Eyelids sore as if I didn’t sleep at all.
At least it’s the day I can drink caffeine with impunity.
I choose not to eat cake for breakfast.
Their bottoming out isn’t surprising, although our reaction of borderline irresponsible peace is.
All over the floor. And the train tracks. And her casts.
How dare I feel bored, frustrated, or annoyed at spending all day, every day with her for three years when so many parents barely see their children after the first six weeks. Any second now someone will jump out from behind a bush and yell, “Check your privilege!”
I eat the cake.
I spend the extra hour in my warm car, listening to a podcast, eating cold leftovers out of a Tupperware, mooching wi-fi in drowsy silence.
I open Scrivener. The words, the bones–they’re still good. But the old conflict is still in there, too. I close it again.
Wherever you’re going, I’m going. I just wish I had a clue where that was.