I arrived home safely from a long day’s work. I normally drive the speed limit but something clicked inside of me tonight and, whatever it was, made me sink my right foot deep onto the gas pedal and speed through twenty-five, thirty and thirty-mile per hour zones at seventy and eighty miles per hour. I tapped on the brake only to maneuver through the many sharp turns I encountered and when I thought a shadow could be a deer slowly moving into my path.
I grabbed a root beer from the fridge and went upstairs. It’s very warm here and nothing feels right. The conversations I’ve been having have been tap dance routines because the truth of the matter is I’m exhausted from acting normal. The more I speak the more I distance myself. I don’t know what that is. Or perhaps I do know but I’m just not telling anyone or admitting it to myself.
So the root beer is almost gone, the cats are lying about, and my next work day is slowing creeping up. I have an itch that is almost impossible to get to and I’ve accepted this and have put it out of my head.
Time for bed.