waxing gibbeous

On Wednesday afternoon, I apologized to Sam,

“I’m sorry I was so crabby last week. I was really PMS-y.”
“ I need to put this in my calendar.”

But a monthly repeat won’t work; because of my birth control addiction, it needs to repeat on a 4-week or 28-day schedule. He doesn’t know how to do that on the iphone calendar.

On Friday, we ate our dinner on a bench outside Taïm, and I got tahini sauce on my shirt just like I knew I would.

“I haven’t been drunk in. . . a long time.”

“Me either. That’s why I thought tonight was the night,” I was disappointed.

I’d had a plan. Going out with my co-workers always ends in my getting silly-drunk, which would make it possible to stop by Prince Charming’s and his room mate’s birthday party, even after December’s incident. I haven’t seen him for the whole of the new year, and he still hasn’t managed to mention his girlfriend to me. But more than that, I’d get drunk, stop by the party, and have an excuse to call Ted.

I’m not sure why I needed such an intense plan to rationalize calling him. I talk to him nearly every day. Being drunk somehow seems like a better reason that just wanting to. But everyone was tired and went to a different place than usual and didn’t get drunk. No matter-- he texted before 7.

So Sam and I were walking back across town, somewhere in the single-digit streets with no specific destination when he pointed,

“Look!”

The moon was low and full between two buildings.

“You know what that means,” he explains. “That you just had your menses.”

Sam has figured out my phase of the moon.

~beatrix