A snippet of writing from the last few days:
Leigh takes a breath, releases it, feels the air flow out of her lungs. She tries to focus in the stillness. It is so quiet right now. She can’t even hear the television, can’t hear anything Evan’s doing. For all she knows he’s already headed to work by now, except she knows he hasn’t. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, without kissing her on the forehead and telling her to drive safe.
It’s that vortex, she thinks, that black pit, the glory hole of nothingness. She counters the flouncy thoughts by cracking her knuckles, one at a time, calculating the pop. Arthur-Pickle stretches, trembles slightly, returns to his curled position. On three she will get up. She counts – one, two, two and a half – and then wills herself into going vertical.
Two and a half. She counts like a mother, giving one final chance before – what? It is, of course, possible to threaten oneself, to talk to oneself as a child. Three, and then three and a half, and on the count of four she is still lying prone. Through her half-closed lids she can see the details of their bedroom: clothes hanging in the half-open closet, his on the left and hers at right; a red tennis shoe discarded in the corner; his laptop, screen still frozen on the Netflix movie they were watching last night, balanced on his nightstand; the Eugenides book she’s been trying and failing to read the last few days; a snapshot they took of themselves in Barcelona the year before they married. They were young then, young and foolish in that entirely happy way. The picture features the spill of her hair, the tilt of his chin, their lips joined but obscured.