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uninspired
I wake up and it's grey. Everything is cast in a filter.
The usual motions: scrubbed teeth, wiped counter, hammered keys. Emails sent and scheduled. No notifications.
Rain patters. It's a welcome relief from heavy clouds, but now I'm trapped. I don't have the shoes, don't have the layers, don't have the energy.
I move every hour, just like Fitbit says. From the desk to the bed; the bed to the sofa; the sofa to the kitchen where I pace like a captive big cat.
Uninspired, unmoved, unglued. All I can punch out is grey.
speaking with my spouse
A sigh. The pattering of footsteps; walking on my toes. A t-shirt, then a pair of wrinkled boxer shorts, meet and hang on the rim of the washing basket, which sags in response.
'What a day.'
A light breeze snakes its way through musty space. I close my eyes and all I can see is the angle the canvas takes now the clothes hang there.
'Can you please put them IN the basket?'
Heavier footsteps, then a small whoosh: a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt, draped over my head.
'Can you text him and let him know we're almost there?' He's staring straight down the road, peering into the dark. The satnav says we're sixteen minutes away.
'Sure,' I mutter, grabbing his phone with its gammy fingerprints smeared across the plastic screen protector.
The light is garish, my eyes adapted to darkness on such a long drive. It's his best friend's birthday: Air B&B by the coast, clinking champagne bottles in the boot, a cluster of people whose names I'm ready to forget.
I open the chain. It's a few rows down, beneath automated reminders of crossfit classes and verification codes for online sites. The last message was sent three days ago. Of course, my eyes have read it before I have time to make sound decisions.
'Let's talk about it this weekend, bro'
Up and to the right... 'I think I need to break up with her.'
I twist my gaze to the left, trying to be imperceptible. He doesn't turn at all and I wonder whether he feels me looking, whether he's noticed the delay. I follow his instructions (fourteen minutes now; I round up to account for traffic) and slide the phone back between us.
I consider my options, all of which feel bleak. My life with this man, to be honest, feels bleak and monotonous. The time seems to be moving so slowly and his silence makes the car radio feel garish.
'Pull over a sec,' I demand, more forceful than I've felt for a while.
'We're almost there,' he replies and I realise he doesn't listen to what I say, his replies just slightly misaligned to something appropriate every single time. His replies, his actions, the looks which skate over me as though I'm not really there. I am in this car in the same way I am in his life: by default.
I take the wheel and pull hard to the left. This decision isn't his to make.
(culture shock)
The first I enter is Erewhon. I am jet-lagged and the shine pulls me in like a moth. The soup, stacked in Mason jars, is appealing. I lift a clam chowder and leave when I see it's $20.
The next day, I am more prepared. Yet Wholefoods is too cold. Shivering, I search for something familiar. I almost forget to buy something, distracted by an elevator for trolleys.
Albertsons, Ralphs, Pavilions and VONS. I enter them all and they play tricks on my mind. Apparently they are different, but they blur into one.
In Trader Joe's, everyone wants to be my best friend. They ask about my day, my family, stopping short of my trauma. I walk away with a sticker that reads 'NUTS ABOUT YOU', half convinced that I've found community.
One day, a year or so in, I wake up yearning.
My heart is heavy and I yearn for one thing: Tesco.
Hanging out away from the fire
I am hanging out with you under dubious circumstances. You make a clicking sound without opening your mouth, feet off the pedal, sports mode on. I say sentences and they drift into the clean air we're breathing. I'm not sure if you hear me because you don't reply.
We're driving and driving. You choose the music, I choose the mood. Sometimes one of us says something amusing. Most of these things don't settle; on occasion we find them hysterical, riffing and laughing until it catches our lungs. Past the window, a never-ending chain of the same old strip mall. There's Target, Trader Joe's, Chilli's. You repeat the memes which were our only reference to these American chains before we moved here.
Hanging out with you is often frustrating. Sometimes I feel so completely in company, other times I feel hopelessly alone. Your psyche drifts to somewhere far away. We both jostle from the real world to the world we've run from, from things we can see to things in that third digital spaces. We both message other people, outsourcing our company in every which direction.
It is hot and it is dry, a veritable tinderbox. We're not used to hanging out with our full disaster bag and nowhere to go. I'm used to having a list, you're used to looking out in awe when we arrive at somewhere we've researched. It's unclear whether this unchartered day is something magical or something to be feared. I look up at you and you don't look back. Your mind is in the mountains, mine curled in my grandparents' lounge. We both seek comfort as our home fills with smoke.
Hanging out right now isn't easy; it hurts, it's chaos, it's cloying. That said, in these dubious circumstances, there is nobody else with whom I'd rather be.
Hmm, interesting. Let me process. It's not that I don't believe you... But believing you doesn't come naturally.
It must be a hard wrap, being God. There's this delicate balance to keep. I guess it's like being a teacher. You want things to end up well, but you've placed the ball in their court. Independence is bittersweet.
Does it enrage you, seeing choices be made? Can you find ways, like the rest of us do, to look away from the violence, the narcissism, the cruelty?
If there's a reason for all this, I'd like to know.
The music is ambient, the lights are low. Scraping chairs fall into the beat of the soft jazz; the receipt emerging from the till yet another piece of percussion. I am sat with a laptop- the quintessential 21st century person.
Facing the entrance, I have seen every person who's entered the bottle shop since me. People come in alone, looking harried. Some come in unlikely partnerships whilst others look perfect for one another.
An email pings: something is expected from me. I type and click, my brain whirring. Productivity is a noble goal. I am excited for the buzz I'll feel when I achieve something, anything.
Breathing deeply, I press 'send' and take in the scent of frying ingredients, a real mix of vegetables and carbs. The door opens once more, a light December breeze aerating the space.
I am used to many things, having moved to Los Angeles, where anything seems to go. That doesn't stop a small gasp escaping my throat when this tall, mustachioed man enters, a firecracker scent reaching me from even meters away.
The barista audibly sighs, assessing the queue and balancing the lesser of two evils. He scurries from behind the bar, grasping the sleeved arm of the new presence. "The restrooms are this way," he scolds, the two men moving in tandem out of my view. A woman in the queue with a crop is already drafting her poor Google review.
Before he rounds the corner, the man catches my eye. A singular jet-black curl peeks from beneath a worn green cap. With a short wave of his wrench, he manages to connect with me for a mere second. Then, he's gone.
I recommence my tapping, waiting eagerly for the plumber to re-emerge. The barista clears the queue, again and again, as it goes from a matcha latte crowd to a local IPA crowd. The sun crests the building opposite.