sputter of the coffee pot, over the shot of bourbon I tossed in my first cup to try to mute it, over the morning news I turned on only for the noise.
That black box always called to me. It was just that some days I was better at ignoring it than others.
I tried to focus on tasks I needed to do, like the inexplicable way I pre-cleaned my condo before the cleaning service arrived. I thought, years ago, that hiring someone to clean my home would free me up to focus more on my business, but the opposite was true. The idea of people coming to my house and judging me—silently or not—on my tidiness was a nightmare. I picked up, made sure all clothes were in the hamper, and tried to collect my glasses and put them all in the sink. I would be at the club focusing on something when my subconscious would dredge up an embarrassing location—on the back of the toilet in the master bathroom—where I’d left a cocktail glass. It was good to unwind with a cold drink under a hot shower spray, but I didn’t need other people knowing that about me.
There was also the matter of going over the papers my lawyer had sent me—the very one I’d kept since hiring him to deal with Ron and the restraining order all those years ago. He’d drawn up papers about turning the club over to Sol. Reflecting on everything had shown me that I was going to do that sooner rather than later. There were places in this world I wanted to see while I could still walk, before the wrinkles completely took over my face. That was what I wanted to do—embrace the restlessness inside of me, put it to good use, wander all over this world until I was dead, or out of money, or satisfied on some forgotten island, existing by the water’s edge.
I was going to show Sol the papers today.
I thought that decision would keep me from the box, but I was wrong. If I showed Sol the papers today, then I’d have to tell Marcus. I didn’t want him showing up at the club, expecting to see me but learning that Sol was its new proprietress.
I would need to write Marcus a letter—still our preferred mode of contact—and that made me wonder what was in his last letter, if there were any quips I should respond to, any news of his I should follow up on. It would be easier if we called each other, but I believed that made us closer than I was comfortable with us being. I wanted to maintain the illusion that we were at arm’s length. Calling him, though I was well aware of what his number was, would shatter it.
I distracted myself a few moments more by writing a quick note: Thought you’d like to know I’m handing the reins of the club over to Sol, who more than deserves them. I tried to make those the only words that I needed to mention. Then, I dragged the stepladder out, carried it clunking painfully against my side, and set it up in my closet.
As I stood on it, reaching for the box of letters, part of me wished I would fall and twist my stupid neck instead of diving into this rabbit hole again. Each time I submerged myself in the years of letters from Marcus I’d kept, archived away, it was harder and harder to resurface.
The thought was ludicrous. How could I entertain the idea of being with Marcus again? I was well in my forties, practically staring fifty in the face. This wasn’t an age that women usually pined from afar, looking to tie down something. This was an age for women to be counting their twentieth wedding anniversary, glowing with the knowledge that they’d kept a husband for this long.
I didn’t really want to marry Marcus, did I?
That was the ending all the fairy tales had, and my life had been anything but. Ugly things had happened to me, and I’d been stupid. I didn’t really have a fairy godmother, and nothing close to a genie in a lamp. I’d struggled and fallen down and failed.
If there was a happily ever after in all of this, I had no idea what it would look like. I thought it would be me, here in this condo, letting the club that had
That black box always called to me. It was just that some days I was better at ignoring it than others.
I tried to focus on tasks I needed to do, like the inexplicable way I pre-cleaned my condo before the cleaning service arrived. I thought, years ago, that hiring someone to clean my home would free me up to focus more on my business, but the opposite was true. The idea of people coming to my house and judging me—silently or not—on my tidiness was a nightmare. I picked up, made sure all clothes were in the hamper, and tried to collect my glasses and put them all in the sink. I would be at the club focusing on something when my subconscious would dredge up an embarrassing location—on the back of the toilet in the master bathroom—where I’d left a cocktail glass. It was good to unwind with a cold drink under a hot shower spray, but I didn’t need other people knowing that about me.
There was also the matter of going over the papers my lawyer had sent me—the very one I’d kept since hiring him to deal with Ron and the restraining order all those years ago. He’d drawn up papers about turning the club over to Sol. Reflecting on everything had shown me that I was going to do that sooner rather than later. There were places in this world I wanted to see while I could still walk, before the wrinkles completely took over my face. That was what I wanted to do—embrace the restlessness inside of me, put it to good use, wander all over this world until I was dead, or out of money, or satisfied on some forgotten island, existing by the water’s edge.
I was going to show Sol the papers today.
I thought that decision would keep me from the box, but I was wrong. If I showed Sol the papers today, then I’d have to tell Marcus. I didn’t want him showing up at the club, expecting to see me but learning that Sol was its new proprietress.
I would need to write Marcus a letter—still our preferred mode of contact—and that made me wonder what was in his last letter, if there were any quips I should respond to, any news of his I should follow up on. It would be easier if we called each other, but I believed that made us closer than I was comfortable with us being. I wanted to maintain the illusion that we were at arm’s length. Calling him, though I was well aware of what his number was, would shatter it.
I distracted myself a few moments more by writing a quick note: Thought you’d like to know I’m handing the reins of the club over to Sol, who more than deserves them. I tried to make those the only words that I needed to mention. Then, I dragged the stepladder out, carried it clunking painfully against my side, and set it up in my closet.
As I stood on it, reaching for the box of letters, part of me wished I would fall and twist my stupid neck instead of diving into this rabbit hole again. Each time I submerged myself in the years of letters from Marcus I’d kept, archived away, it was harder and harder to resurface.
The thought was ludicrous. How could I entertain the idea of being with Marcus again? I was well in my forties, practically staring fifty in the face. This wasn’t an age that women usually pined from afar, looking to tie down something. This was an age for women to be counting their twentieth wedding anniversary, glowing with the knowledge that they’d kept a husband for this long.
I didn’t really want to marry Marcus, did I?
That was the ending all the fairy tales had, and my life had been anything but. Ugly things had happened to me, and I’d been stupid. I didn’t really have a fairy godmother, and nothing close to a genie in a lamp. I’d struggled and fallen down and failed.
If there was a happily ever after in all of this, I had no idea what it would look like. I thought it would be me, here in this condo, letting the club that had
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