Yesterday's writing

Daylight’s not supposed to be torture. She’s pretty sure of that. However, her experience is vastly contradicting that at the moment. The sun is out, insinuating its way through the blinds, and she’s afraid that her evening of sleep is over.

Lying in bed thinking seems a bit too much of a trap, so she gets up, slowly so as not to wake Evan. She’s not sure why she bothers. A damn bomb could go off and the guy would still continue to snore. For the first time she realizes that the bedroom is togged out in all different variants of blue. It’s not necessarily a we’re-by-the-ocean thing. It’s a Randall thing.

The Randall thing means that the comforter is a slightly darker shade of blue than the window valences, which are darker still than the the fluffy rug that separates bed from dresser. Even the small television in the corner is draped with a turquoise swath of cloth. It doesn’t so much pull the room together as make one feel that they are standing amongst a sea of clashing stars, all beautiful and none in harmony.

She leaves for what she hopes will be less-blue pastures, namely the kitchen. Here it’s more white than anything, white with splashes of color. Red microwave, purple rug, yellow scoop that she uses to dump coffee grounds into the machine. While it goes through its paroxysms, Leigh pokes in the refrigerator. She’d always taken Randall for a health nut and some of its contents support that notion – wheat germ, protein drinks – but he’s betrayed by his freezer. Rarely has she seen so many frozen foods packed into one small space. Fish sticks, Hot Pockets, jalapeno poppers. Does he actually eat this crap? She can’t imagine her cousin with a microwaved chicken sandwich and yet there they are.

You really never know, she thinks, and contents herself with some Reduced-Guilt Pita Chips from Trader Joe’s. When her coffee’s ready, she pours it and takes it out onto the deck that spills off the living room. The view really couldn’t be more idyllic. It’s just ocean and sand and not much else, and she wonders if she could get bored of it. She comes to the conclusion that yes, you can get bored of just about everything, including – especially – perfection.

This is not the kind of morning you often have with children around. Maybe not kids of Katie’s age, but then again, maybe those kids too. You’re never just self-contained when you’re a parent. You always have one ear to the ground, one eye peeled just in case.

Sometimes, of course, that’s not enough.

It’s in these moments that regret and relief mix. In these circumstances, the negative feelings are always easier to understand. Of course there’s regret, anger, sorrow, grief. Without them she might be considered heartless, a sociopath. That’s why she never admits to the relief. It’s small and dirty and pressed down so far into the core of her that she rarely even realizes it’s there, let alone shares it with others.