Time On My Hands

Time on My Hands
Journal Entry: Mon Jul 3, 2006
I take a cab home, drop the heavy bags on the table, open the windows to let the afternoon air in.
Throw some pasta into a pot of boiling water; pick up dirty clothes off the floor.
Doorman brings gas bill, phone line disconnected due to lack of payment please call your telephone operator central thank you.

I don't eat the pasta because Vanessa invites me over; she's cooked vegetable stir-fry with yellow peppers, parsley and Soya sauce.
I crunch on the ice in my Diet-7, she lights another Marlboro, Mariam shows up late, we put up our feet up on the couch and watch Boston Legal, fawning over James Spader and his kooky mouth.
They both have plans at nine; I really wish we could stay a little longer, barefoot on the beige couch. But we leave.

Drive to the supermarket round the corner, pick up two bottles of water, some bread, yoghurt (I'm being careful), drive back to my house, feeling a little lost.
At this hour, I'm usually trying to multitask between showering, brushing my teeth, combing my hair, then stumbling into hurried clothes, perfume, no time to eat, grab a bottle of water on my way out, in the haste and hurry to make it into your open arms.

And now.
I turn all the lights on, I put on my running shoes, skipping rope in the guest room, listening to an old dance CD I made seven years ago (I skip the Enrique Eglesias song- reminds me too much of Mohab)

Watch my body in the mirror, don't like what I see, the marks growing, the flesh softening (you say you love it- I don't)
I wish I was harder on myself, I will eat less this week, I will jog around the neighbourhood tomorrow night, I might as well; I have nothing better to do.

Shower, scrub my face, scrub my feet, cut my nails, shape my eyebrows, clean my room, and eat the cold pasta.
Put on your t-shirt, breathe in your smell, rub cream into my skin, watch Pride and Prejudice,

You call me. It's midnight, and I'm falling asleep on the couch, wearing your t-shirt, your scent on my skin, you say good night,

I have nothing left to do, so I drag my feet into my room, turn the fan on and switch the lights off.

Set my alarm.

I got used to falling asleep at three in the morning after a night full of laughter and hands colliding, your shining eyes,

here I am in the dark, watching the fan wings spin over my head, so much time on my hands, nothing to do; you've only been away for one day. And I know you're back in two.

If I feel lost now, what will I do in September?