Here we are on Day 3 (Day 6 for those who started on time), and I’m still mercilessly behind. I’m banking on the rainy weekend for much needed catch-up. What better excuse to stay out of the cold and curled up on a couch with my dog and laptop?
A busy day at work today, so not much writing going on. But here’s what I managed to add today:
I wake to the smell of spaghetti sauce, mixed with cinnamon. And popcorn, maybe? The room is dark. Kip usually eats late, so I’m guessing I’ve slept for a good eight hours. I climb out of bed and pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt (my favorite, with the penguin holding up the ice-cream man at gunpoint) and a fleece for good measure. It feels amazing against my skin. I feel immensely improved.
“’Morning, sunshine,” Kip greets me delicately as I pad, sock-footed, into the kitchen. “Tea?” He sips from a large, bright green mug and indicates, with a jerk of his neck, the teapot on the stove.
“Mhmm,” I manage, grateful for something warm, non-alcoholic and readily available. “I wasn’t too mean this morning, was I?” I ask, as a strange means of apology.
“No, you were darling and miserable. It was a fantastic scene,” he says, genuinely good-natured. “Tasha’s coming over.” He goes and parks himself on the couch in front of some crime show, they all look the same. “I’m making brownies and you’re telling us about your sordid adventures in downtownland.”
I neither agree nor protest, just slowly bounce the teabag in my mug, letting the steam warm my face. Here’s what I can piece together, and what I (in a roundabout way) relate to Kip and Tash later in the evening:
I did wait for a while at the main stage for Tash and Brian’s return. It wasn’t the cold that caused me to abandon my post, though. Instead it was a certain Italian and his new girlfriend, who appeared without warning on the stage dressed as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. His perennial tan hidden under the powder, I didn’t recognize him at first. It wasn’t until they’d glided to the edge of the stage, she bent forward coyly in her little, poofy skirt and he smacked her on the ass that it dawned on me: Here was the guy I’d nearly married, and the girl who, thankfully, came between us.
After two years of dating and six months of what I’d taken for blissful cohabitation, Etsio announced that “something just didn’t feel right” between us. Read: “I met a perky, little Venezuelan at soccer practice and I realize now that I’ve been such an fool, and, despite anything I may have said in the past about you becoming my wife, mothering my children and sharing my life forever and ever, it is she, not you, who is the true love of my life.”
Point taken. Eventually, anyway. I wish I could say I gave him a blunt “fuck you” and walked out his, our front door never looking back, that I was fearless and strong and relieved to be free of such a burdensome man/boy. Sadly, I did not go quietly. I cried and yelled and told him he was making the mistake of his life, that this girl couldn’t hold a candle to me, that he’d regret losing me, that if he left me now, nothing would ever convince me to come back to him! In short – I made a complete idiot of myself. It was one of those moments of dribbly, messy melting-into-a-puddle-of-pathetic-goo desperation.
Nearly a year later, I thought I was happily over it. I’d begun to see this Latin lover as a miracle, an intervention in what would’ve been a huge mistake. So why, then, when these two appeared before me once again, did it feel like food poisoning?