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colors of it dazzle and anger me. I stare at it from
where I sit until something happens inside me. Aloud to the now burnt-out
candle, to the painting above me, to the empty room, to everything, I whisper
hoarsely, fighting back tears, “You want to break me? You want me to become
stronger? You’re doing both. And I’m beginning to hate you for it.”
    I stand, dust myself off, take a deep breath and
gather my things together. An urge to paint comes over me. Should I? My glance
falls on the empty canvas I’d set out when I first got here, and it calls to me
now, come. Take out your pain and anguish
on me. But I look away, don’t go to it. Instead, I walk downstairs, and go
home.

 
    A Month Later

 
    I really need to get a maid or something for these
floors, because lord knows I’m not cleaning them. From this angle on my bed, I
can see all the dust-bunnies under my dresser and light gray where warm brown
should be, on my hardwood floors. Ugh. Picking up my pillow and toppling it on
my head, I block out the afternoon light and all evidence of my homemaking
inadequacies. Napping on the weekend is supposed to make me feel better, but my
mind won’t stop racing. Among the many things spiraling through it are
conversations I wish I could re-have and a to-do list of inane house fixings;
light bulb replacement, dish soap buying, cable password getting.
    But more persistent, are thoughts of Michael. Since
our night where we came so close to ripping each other to pieces, I’ve seen him
only briefly to give him my portion of the rent check. He’d had to go and said
I could stay and paint, but I declined and waited for him to leave. If I could
get better at the Internet, I’d direct deposit his ass, so I could be spared
the distressing eagerness with which my blood boils when I’m around him. Not
that it would stop me from wanting him. Or from making up excuses to show up
when I know he’s there. We set up when we first started that he has nights, since
it’s his space to begin with, and I only pitch in a fraction of the rent. For the
past few weeks, it’s has been like giving myself dental surgery to resist going
over and offer to watch him work and forget we had an argument. He likes it
when I watch him... maybe I could… dammit! Ugh. I smash the pillow harder onto
my head, crushing my face against the cool sheet.
    Who am I kidding? I’m not going to get any sleep
right now.
    Exasperated, I climb off the bed to go to the
bathroom. One look at the tub and I think, bubble
bath . Oh my God. Yes. That sounds perfect. I pour in enough Eucalyptus-scented
bubble bath to froth the Mississippi, start the water, and go get my phone for
my playlist. Always, when I’m in the bathtub - and I mean always – I
listen to Opera on repeat. Only one artist will ever do: Lorraine Hunt Lieberman.
Her voice is so soothing; no crazy unexpected explosions of volume to jar me
out of tranquility, like some operas.   I have no idea what she’s saying, since she’s singing in what I think is
Italian. In fact, it took me two years to realize what I thought was a whole
album, was really only two songs over and over. Still didn’t deter me from
forgetting that little morsel of info, so I could keep enjoying my music in
peace.
    In my bathroom are twinkle lights I bought in an
after-Christmas sale and today, despite it being in the mid-afternoon, I plug
them in and use them as the only light… besides the sun that streaks in from a
solitary window. Lighting can really set a mood. Lady Lorraine begins her
serenade as I slide out of my PJs, dropping them on the floor in a pile by my
feet. I pull my hair into a high bun so I don’t have to redo this shit later,
and ease myself into the water that’s so hot I have to inch into it with all
the speed of a child eating vegetables.
    Lying here in rising bubbles as the tub continues
to fill, I close my eyes and let go of all the stress that seems to live in me,
lately. Her beautiful singing takes