Rayford looked out on the bright sunshine pouring out on the lawn as he sat poolside, a bowl of cut fruit near to hand. It was a happy scene, the flowers and Christmas cactus blossoming and spring green, but it brought no cheer to his heart. All he could think about was better days.
His wife Claire came stomping out of the house with her iPad. “Do you see this garbage? Angelina Jolie is no longer a Pitt. Who cares?? Why don’t I get actual news on my newsfeed anymore?”
Their marriage wasn’t what it used to be; money and comfort had changed them both. Rayford was more complacent now, and Claire more angry and domineering.
“I don’t know, dear,” Rayford mumbled, already tuning her out. He was losing himself in reminiscence. Back when they were a happy couple, back when they had less money.
“I think I’ll go back to that computer repair guy today,” Claire’s voice was growing fainter in Rayford’s ears. “He really seemed to…”
Her laughter sparkled like glitter on the wind. Rayford could lie here and listen to her laugh for hours. He loved her laugh. The smile broadened on his face as he reached to caress her shoulder.
Claire flipped around to look him in the eyes. “Pretty please, with sugar on top?” she asked in her sweetest voice.
“Your wish is my command, my darling,” replied Rayford. “My heart is a slave to your own.”
She slapped at him, playfully. “I love you, Ray. Your soul is a twin to mine. Promise me we’ll always be this happy?”
He leaned in to kiss her neck, and murmured the words into the hollow beneath her ear. “Always.”
Sometimes down and out is better than up and in.
The worst part is that life goes on.
The minutes, then hours, then days that you don’t think about it until you’re out in public and it slaps you in the face that none of these dozens or hundreds of people passing you by have any idea of what you’re going through right this minute when it’s suddenly too much and it hurts to breathe and your heart beats black spots into your vision.
Or maybe they do know. Maybe they’re struggling too, trying to come to terms with losing the very same person. But neither of you know that, and it wouldn’t change anything if you did.
But mostly, it’s just another day to them.
How can it be? How can it be just another day? The world is not the same; the ripples of change must surely be felt by all.
And then you kick yourself because it was gone again, for a minute, for an hour. Life went on while you weren’t looking. As it has been for those same dozens or hundreds of people walking by you.
Life, going on.
The anger comes. The waves of rage crashing down that this happened and not that. That this one is gone and not that one. That nothing is fair and life goes on and you forget, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s for a second or a minute or an hour because you’re letting someone down.
But you forget that too, for a minute, for an hour. Forget and forget and forget, all day and all night but it doesn’t matter because nothing is real anymore but it still happens.
Life goes on. Out of nowhere, life goes on.
And it’s bullshit, but that’s the way it is.
Coming and going. Forgetting and remembering and forgetting.
I am this close to finally putting a pencil and paper in my bedside table.
I have spent the last three days trying my damnedest to remember what the hell I was going to write about. It came to me when I was dozing the other day, and I repeated three words to myself enough that I thought I would be able to remember.
Yeah, I remember the three damn words, alright.
chili cookoff compliment
Those three words have become the bane of my existence. I cannot for the life of me figure out what I had in mind when I chose those to represent the super genius post idea I came up with.
And you know, a friend of ours gave me, in my Christmas gift bag, a whole set of kitty cat covered tiny notepads that would be abso-freaking-lutely perfect to cram into my nightstand drawer next to the vibrators, nail clippers, and wasabi dark chocolate (we’re pretty kinky). But no.
Honestly, I have no idea what happened to the rest of the notepads, aside from the one I put in the purse that I haven’t been carrying since I got a wallet phone case.
chili cookoff compliment
Their miniature alliteration taunts me day and night.
Last night, while I tried to find a comfortable position to wrap myself around the ball of hatred that is my right kidney, they teased me, just out of reach on the tip of my brain.
Yesterday afternoon, while we wandered the grocery store, loading up on yogurt and buffalo sauce (don’t ask–or do; I made the bomb buffalo chicken mac-n-cheese last night).
Tuesday morning, while I perused Facebook, seeking signs of intelligent life and finding only Trump supporters.
chili cookoff compliment
If I type it enough will it come back to me?
It would not seem to be so.
I wonder if I’ll ever remember what I was talking about.
Probably not. Stupid chili.