domesticity

We had to change laundries because it seemed like the strange frilly knickers we were getting back might somehow correlate to my sudden shortage of underpants.

Our savings account earned three cents, but is seeming more real this months as it is now four digits.

We go for walks and watch Hell’s Kitchen.

And the sink is broken. It was draining slow, then not at all, then working again. And finally it began silently regurgitating filthy brown water. The super’s number, stored in my phone, usually a direct line to a crabby wife, is being answered by a woman named Susan. My landlord answered one email and has since been MIA.

The dirty dishes are piling up, but it’s too hot to cook anyway.

~beatrix

this end of things

I just wanted to watch a pasta factory on Unwrapped, but I told him he could change the channel. Dancing with the Stars. Then I just wanted to watch that. But of course he started kissing me. And he took off my shirt.

My bathtub is really, truly broken. The super won’t call me back. I needed a proper shower rather desperately, and Sandeep lives so close.

I’m not sure if I’m using him for his shower.

I think he might be using me, too. I want to be still. I want to talk.

I ask him if he’s kissing me so I’ll be quiet. He says I can talk, but it’s hard when he’s shoving his tongue in my mouth.

“I want to have sex with you.”

It’s a sentiment I can appreciate. But I just keep getting the feeling he doesn’t want to get to know me. That he doesn’t care so much about having me around as having someone around. I keep my pants on.

I don’t want to be on this end of things.



~beatrix

lightening

The first springtime thunderstorm and a broken bathtub: can anything make you want a boyfriend more?

Maybe that anxiety attack lurking just below your ribcage.

~beatrix