Writing prompt: Bone tired
Two notes: This is fiction. And for a much more encouraging take on "Fake it until you make it," check out the post The Greatest Love from the fabulous Melinda Roberts Tyler of Melindaville.
Image from
It is Called Mount Cope.
I’ve been reduced to this, eating cheese
crumbs out of my clothes, stepping over the
cat puke on the rug, shuffling outside in a
pair of de-elasticized boxers and a
translucent t-shirt, ancient and holey, to
get the New York Times at 10:30 a.m.
Yeah, I’ll wave at you, neighbor woman from
across the street. Hello. Hello. I don’t know
your name because you never gave it to me.
The first thing out of your mouth when we
moved here two years ago was “Don’t park your
car in front of my house again.” OK. Thanks
for the welcome, lady. That was when I cared,
when my skirts were crisped by the
drycleaners, when I ran a brush through my
hair in front of a wiped-clean mirror, when I
spent half an hour every Saturday wrestling
with that damn morning glory vine on the
fence to keep it in line. I cared what you
thought then, Neighbor, but I don’t anymore.
No. I don’t give a fuck. I trace these two
years gone and if I cared I might wonder what
happened. He left, briefly, though he’s back
now. We’re back to the marriage bed, so to
speak. I still can’t stand the feel of his
hand on my back, how his fingers trace their
way down to my ass. Fake it until you make
it, the expression goes. That’s his
philosophy, anyway, and at least he’s here.
Says he’ll stay with me through this little
setback of mine. This emotional trough. He
claims to know what love is. This is it,
supposedly.
But I don’t believe him and wait for him to
disappear.