Pieces
The way I do this writing thing largely boils down to writing pieces until I have enough bits that almost fit together that I can see a story in them. Then I pull my hair out, grind my teeth and chew my nails through the rest of the story.
Here’s the bit I wrote last night:
I pushed back the sleep, rubbed my eyes and silenced the alarm clock. I reached out to touch the cold side of the bed. I was still alone.
The coffee was bitter this morning, I grimaced at it while my bare ass warmed the cold plastic chair. It’s cheesy as all shit to say that her being there would have made none of that matter, but it’s true. I’d barely have noticed bad coffee and cold chairs if I was talking to her, if it was a normal day. The radio chatter predicted sunshine, but the damp air and sullen clouds said otherwise. I had the day off today. If she were here we’d sit in and drink coffee ’til lunch.
I checked the phone, my email, everything. I knew I wouldn’t hear from her, just like I knew she wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have slipped in last night, when I woke up.
It might have been easier if I had left instead. She’d gathered up her stuff weeks ago, but I was still finding things she’d forgotten, or, worse, my own shit that reminded me of her. It hurts to remember, but you can’t forget, so you just try to find that numb place in between with bad coffee and cold chairs. It’s not a great place, but there are worse places to be.
Little bit of advice, so you can learn from my experience: No matter how much she looks like your wife, no matter how drunk you both are, don’t bang your wife’s sister.
So what is that? The advent of some sub-hero? A private detective’s morning? Who knows? I sure as shit don’t.
What am I doing with my life?