a bedtime story

‘twas the night before therapy and all through the apartment young cats were chasing each other while 2/3 of the human occupants slept. 1/3 of the human occupants is avoiding sleep because she can feel the nightmares before they begin. instead she caffeinates and writes to you.

she makes a mental grocery list (baby carrots, diet dr. pepper, bbq chicken, beer, fudge pops) and decides to forego the late-night grocery trip, preferring to procrastinate all things that can be pushed until tomorrow. she makes this decision while drinking the last diet dr. pepper and eating the last baby carrot and wishing for a beer and bbq chicken.

she waited on a phone call that never came because he probably forgot that he said that he’d call. half the time he forgets to call. she doesn’t much mind his not calling (only a little bit). she could call him. she doesn’t. she figures he’s drunk and there’s no reason to bother calling when he has forgotten or when he is drunk.

she thought about calling her best friend to surprise her, since she’s only called her best friend three times in the past five years, but she doesn’t want to alarm her best friend who might think something is wrong if she called.

something might be wrong but the something would be the same thing that has been wrong since before she figured out what was wrong and not something new to worry about at all. she doesn’t worry. she’d prefer not to worry anyone else either.

she sits in the most uncomfortable chair with the best posture she can muster and tries to relax her jaw. her jaw clenches against the tears she doesn’t let fall.

the world came at her too fast and too hard today and yesterday and last week and last month. she tried keeping up and fell. nobody noticed. she picked herself up, like she always does. nobody commented on the bruises. she learned long ago that nobody is paying attention, that you can get away with almost anything if you keep quiet about it. she’s quiet. she laughs loudly with her head thrown back, but otherwise she’s quiet.

she knows the meaning of your quietness, too. she’s seen you when you think nobody is looking, when you think nobody is paying attention. she knows how to watch you without being noticed, without putting you on guard. she doesn’t say anything to you about what she knows, not directly. but the hug she gives you lasts a little longer because she knows.

later tonight when you are drifting to sleep, she’ll be in her bed thinking of you and sending wishes whispered into the dark, “sweet dreams, little one. you are loved.”


About angel joy

love is an action verb. i live love in action.
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