Page 10 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Being disappointed when I find his kitchen is empty, though the lights are still ablaze.
I lift on tiptoe, lean over my sink, searching?—
“Jesus, Faye,” I mutter when I do it for so long I get a crick in my neck.
I shake my head at myself and dry my hands on my towel. Then I get crazy and grab a new wine glass, filling it nearly to the top as I treat myself to a second glass of wine. Sipping, I deliberately stride from the kitchen, only slowing to flick off the lights before I pad into the living room.
No more Peeping Tom-ness for tonight.
I’m going to be normal…and alone.
Sighing, I shove down the loneliness. Alone is normal. Alone is my status quo. Alone is my reality and has been for almost my entire life.
I wouldn’t even know what to do if I had a partner.
So why do I yearn so intensely for one?
Why do I make my living writing about happy endings and hunky heroes and heroines who demand their men fall hard and fast and desperately?
The only one who’s falling in my life is me.
Likely because I’ll trip coming down the stairs with an overflowing laundry basket.
Because laundry is my nemesis and I never stay on top of it.
Even if it’s just me. Alone.
“Lame, Faye,” I whisper as I sit on the couch and flick on my TV, navigating to one of the streaming apps (one because I have them all).
Lame is right.
Maybe I need a cat.
No, he or she would probably just eat my face off if I died during a laundry-basket-induced fall down the stairs.
A dog wouldn’t eat me, right?
No way. They’re man’s—or woman’s—best friend.
So, yup, I definitely need a dog.
That decided, I shove the morbid thoughts from my mind, drink my wine, and spend the next few hours watching my show until my lids grow heavy.
Only when I feel ready to pass out do I shut it off. Pausing to check the thermostat and the stove since I can smell that faint burning smell again (and finding both off), I climb the stairs to my bedroom, making my sleepy way through my nighttime routine of washing my face (and moisturizing), brushing my teeth (and flossing). Then I crawl into bed.
Alone.
Of course.
“Enough,” I mutter to myself as I yank the covers up, as the loneliness ramps back up, threatening to escape.
I deliberately shut it down, deliberately close my eyes and spend the next couple of heartbeats clearing my mind.
Unfortunately that means I’m not ready to drift off.
I don’t get up, though.
And I don’t pull out my phone and doom scroll until unconsciousness takes me.
