My parents returned yesterday from a nine day cruise- to Jamaica, Haiti, Dominican Republic, and the Cayman Islands. My father spoke to me briefly of white sand beaches and clear-azure, ocean waters, losing money in the the ship's casino. My mother spoke of gourmet foods every nite, waiters pulling out your chair, setting up your napkin, and chocolates left on pillows. She said she felt like royalty. I am slightly envious, however nine days of freedom were invaluable.
I got a taste of what it is to be "on your own." I did laundry, dishes, cooking, all the domestics that my mother usually does for me.
I keep wondering if I have any regrets about the nine days. The first night they were gone, I kept my lips on glass bottles for hours- smirnoff, kahlua, and malibu. Until I fell into the slightness of the dizzy, dizzy frenzy and he called, called when he left the party, called when he was near my house. Then he came in, arms around me quick and his big soft lips on mine. To the couch, hot minutes, warm moments, to the bedroom, we collided.
And I must be honest, I knew. I knew that it meant nothing to him, but it had been so long, I, so lonely.
That weekend came to a close and so opened Monday morning. I worked all weekend, then Friday nite came again and sleep devoured me, then Saturday. Oh Lord, the drinking Saturday! It was my last day of "freedom" and I took advantage, to say the least.
Intimate gathering on my living room floor. Good friends, bottles, card games, laughter, tears, shots, until I was dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. And it was there that he slipped into my head. Unintentionally, but all the same, in my drunken stupor I became disillusioned, claiming that "I care for him and he is hurting me." Looking back I was drunk, he does not affect me nearly as much as I made it seem. Yet all the same, I do wonder whether I should feel glorified or dirty.
So Monday morning is here now. I'm sitting at my desk. Camel-colored sandals, silver anklet, smooth legs, jeans rolled up, pink and white, horizontal stripes- off the shoulder shirt, white hoops in my ears, hair half pulled back and sweeping across my shoulders. This is me, sitting at my desk, 8:30 to 4:30, Monday thru Friday. It should really come as no surprise that Monday mornings reek of death.