While my dreams of making progress on my novel while sitting at a cafe in Paris may be on hold. And I may have to postpone mispronouncing “Je suis desole, je suis une seigneur-terrace” to the attractive but rude French waiter. I realized, that’s no excuse to postpone working on my novel. What better way to spend my bedrest than typing the tragic story I have within. Although Netflix is rather tempting. And if we’re talking about real priority I should be studying. Anyway, here is a wee piece I want to share with you.
I wake up and roll over. I see him lying next to me. He’s awake. And I get this uneasy feeling that he’s been watching me. For a while now.
I made the mistake of letting him spend the night. My one and only rule, and I broke it. And it is going to break me.
I lay there for what seems like forever pretending I had gone back to sleep, contemplating if I should leave him here alone.
As much as I love running, my hangover from last night’s regrets are resisting each step. Too much whiskey. Too many mistakes to count. You should have known better I scold myself. You have been here before.
My ear buds pump in a motivating beat while I review last night’s events.
Out of the corner of my eye, I had watched him furtively scrutinizing every surface of my room. I wanted to tell him he wouldn’t discover any of my secrets here. I might not be the tidiest of people, but I clean up traces of any aberrancy to a normal life well.
I felt uncomfortable having him there. He had picked up on it because he had asked me more than once if I’m okay. No I’m not okay, I wanted to scream. I have never been okay.
Usually running is my bliss but each step of those six miles were nothing but torturous, ruminating thoughts.
Fuck, I have to return, it is my apartment after all and I need to get ready for work.
Not to mention, throw his ass out.