Tale of a Woman in Bed, Mastering the Art of Losing.
She wonders why they have not come for her yet. She imagines the black boots coming out of the elevator, then turning right, then straight ahead, then kicking her front door open. Maybe they are already waiting down the hall, witnessing the ticking away of her final seconds before breaking into her bedroom.
She wakes up and tries to open her eyes. Giving up soon after, she waits, eyes fully closed. Waits for her watch to link with her phone. So she knows how she slept. She’s sure she didn’t get much sleep. Her weekly chart will suffer. Still, she wants to be sure. She looks at the watch again, eyes half closed. She tries to keep them open for more than a second and a half, but it hurts. Dryness. Lids like licked envelopes. She knows what the watch is going to tell her. Less than six hours’ sleep. Sometimes it’s a little more. Either way, not good enough.
No one is allowed to fly, and yet there are planes in the sky. Wooshing by in the distance, piloted by ghosts. Life is moving outside, in the sun, warm in October. She would prefer the weather to be cold, cloudy, and bleak, to match her insides. Anxiety crawls through her body up to her chest. Life is on hold. No need to check her watch to know.
Window blinds rattle upstairs by people who know best. She is wasting her day. She is just a woman in bed…
