Morning: You wake, if you’re lucky, around ten or eleven o’clock, look to the spot where you know your husband was, but he’s been gone for hours now. Sun streams in through the curtains you bought on sale; they’re made of a sheer fabric, not lace - you are no longer 12. The house is empty save you, the cat, and the dog. The smell of coffee, toast, morning talk shows.
Noon: netflix plays in the background, a glass of water half-gone on the bedside table as you pop a few valiums, sitting on the plush comforter of your bed. You pull on a lilac colored dress, turquoise tights - you haven’t learned to dress in a sophisticated manner, you’re not quite 24. Taking the dog for a walk you hear birds singing, your head is muddled, you feel fine.
Afternoon: a gingham apron, a sink full of soapy water, the stereo playing The Weeknd as you dance around the kitchen washing dishes and cleaning the stove-top. Martinis made for you and only you, a crooked calendar on the wall, windows flung open to let in the fresh air. The bottle of vodka is mostly empty, you’ve started drinking straight from the bottle of vermouth. The archway from the kitchen into the living room is decorated with friends’ Christmas cards, invitations to weddings, graduations, baby showers.
Early evening: your husband is in the living room watching some movie or another while you gab away on the phone, cooking dinner, tossing a scrap of food here or there to your dog. You wonder when your life became so monotonous - your friend crows on the end of the line over the easy life you have. All you see is an empty house, your stained apron, cooking skills that need improvement, a desire to do more with your life.
Night: powder blue lingerie, light green nightie, your ever-loyal pup at your feet. A tree frog is perched outside your window as you stare in the dark at your husband. He’s magnificent, he’s distant, you never thought it would be this way. A fan whirs in the corner, making you pull the blankets tighter around you. You can never sleep, but you won’t take sleeping pills - you refuse to be an addict. On the bathroom counter is a tumbler availed of all its water and an empty valium bottle you have resolved to get refilled in the morning.