The high of the wedding and honeymoon has worn off. Now, I’m fighting crushing loneliness, mind-numbing boredom, and the overwhelming feeling that I have way too much to do. The cosmetic bottles strewn about my vanity confirm my feelings.
I have bruises all over my legs in every color of the contusion rainbow, from an angry purple to a sickening green to a muted yellow. I counted 12 of them, but I have no memory of how any of them got there. It’s as if they appeared on my limbs as works by a particularly sadistic Dadaist. *Smack!* “Ha! It’s art!”
I am trapped under the weight of my laptop desk while Joe lies in the bedroom sick and sleeping. Empty boxes lie flattened in dining room. The automatic litter box is broken, a $250, well, box.
I tick off the things I have to do: work, reel, clean (and clean and clean), write, organize, thank you notes, headshots, mailings. Now that the wedding is over, excuses are done.
More than anything, I’d like to leave the apartment.