ATLANTA, Georgia, September 25, 2008
This is a true set of actions.
Target. Last week. Decide not to buy $10 bottle of Advil. I can get by without.
Today: 6am hits, the cramps. The cold. It’s three hours into a sleep cycle, but I’m awake. The day begins, 3 hours after the last ended.
It hurts, and pretty bad.
The house is empty, so sounds echo: my roommate pouring cereal, forgetting to give the dog water or food, not opening the door to let the dog outside, and finally, leaving for the day.
Prostaglandins are indiscriminate hormones; everything is cramping, and the results aren’t pretty. I lug the laptop into the bathroom with me. And google things.
I think about returning to Target: there is a laundry basket, on sale for $2, which I could use to store clothesnotkitchen. But by now it’s only 9am – maybe Target isn’t open, and maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t use up the gas in my car because no place I’ve been to has any more.
Texaco’s signs read “Out” – simply, and the line inside is short; a fat woman in a denim dress, buying lotto tickets, peanut butter crackers, getting change for a ten. I pay $2.35 for two packets of Advil, four pills, and think for a minute that it’s significant.
Morning air, the start of fall – finally crisp and clean, and when I return home I have a momentary act of kindness: I let the dog out.
He bounds outside paws! ears! tongue! large frame finally in motion after solitary hours curled on the bed. He offers me the ball, falling over himself, inbred googly eyes askance; alight. I tell him firmly, ‘No’ – not to be mean, but so that he doesn’t associate me with love or attention or other things which I would, in the future, so thoroughly deprive him of.
His disappointment is momentary; there are sticks to chew and fences to pee on, and a big, green kudzu mosquito birds chirping backyard to roam! roam! roam!