today is not the day
She hadn’t finished her pre-winter pop quiz of reasons to kill herself when her mind drifted to nothing at all as she undressed. Then turning on the shower she again acknowledged there were insufficient points for a permanent exit today.
She blasted hot water, battling cold misery numbing her legs and back. It was a personal ugly that oozed up and around her, coloring her like a fungus, a chilling green ooze creeping over her, moving upwards, ever upwards. She knew the drill: and it was only The Preliminary Slime. Winter hadn't even started.
She lathered up carefully and searched every niche of her body. This was her daily seek and discover to find the lumps and bumps she religiously believed were festering just beneath her fingertips. She knew if there was one thing she was capable of, it was to be a great and fertile field of death.
Not today for that either. Sighing, it seemed important to get it right: to have the right reasons, concise justification to put down in a perfectly beautiful, hand written letter for her family instead of an incoherent raging mess of lunacy, although maybe that would be easier for everyone to swallow.
Aside from this one glitch, nothing was holding her back or forth or any which way. There was no love, no hate, no nothing. She lived with her dutiful husband who did not love her. Often she wondered if he even liked her. He acknowledged her space on the other side of the room, but that was it. She didn’t blame him. But she missed him. Maybe. There was something. She missed something. Vaguely.
She knew she missed herself. Her her. Her present her had become old and stodgy, wallowing in a crummy little hole of boring. She was too tired to do anything but drag around gunnysacks of grudges and grumbles and coulda beens. They resided in her emotional cape cod living room, crammed beside her flowery slipcovered, age enhanced memories of numerous paths she didn’t take but that still demanded and demanded and demanded acknowledgement and contrition.
She had become white dust, annoying, dull, needing to be addressed but not important enough to think about today. She had long ago considered an affair but it did not interest her. She didn't have the energy or interest in the complications or foolishness of:
- sex (clandestine or otherwise)
- declarations of love
- grand passion
- memorizing alibis
- the smell and viscosity of sex
- buying new makeup and underwear
She was finished with sex. All of it. The revolution was over. Everyone was dead. Or too tired.
She listened to the brainworm she had developed: an old song heard on the radio a few days back - 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover. Hearing it echoing in her brainpan, she found herself pondering a thought, a nugget, turning and inspecting it's intriguing nooks and crannys:
What happens when someone takes what little they have and slips out the back?