So this is real life.
I made the dinner, I set it on the table in front of the TV where we usually eat. The pears were perfect, I swear. The salad simple and yet as fresh as it could get, Mr. Moon having picked the greens in the dark. Leftover chicken potpie that Kathleen had sent over.
"The" game is on. What game? I don't know from games. The only thing I'd rather not watch on TV than "games" is the hunting channel.
It seems to be an important game.
I ate some and it was good but something horrible and evil swelled up inside of me. New Years Eve and I'm watching (not watching) a game.
I blew up. I lost it.
I took my plates to the kitchen.
I brushed my teeth.
I went to bed.
After I had screamed some.
Mr. Moon perfectly unsure of what had just happened.
We were in bed by nine o'clock.
Sleep was not good.
Today is the New Year.
Fuck holidays. Fuck them.
Just fuck them.
The black velvet was not worn in 2010. It slept in the closet as I slept in the bed.
Maybe this past year was so good I didn't want to let it go. Who knows?
Whatever. It's all just a bunch of numbers. Saturday morning and we're here. At least we're not dead on a highway somewhere. At least the house isn't covered in confetti with martini glasses upside down on the sofa. At least we don't have hangovers.
I hear someone won the game.
Someone always does.