What’s the Shitty form of “Adventure”?
Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get out of the house and, like last night, I’ll take a slow meander someplace. It’s better than being inside, in a quiet room, thinking. And it’s night, where the mass of dark thoughts is denser, their gravity less easy to escape.
So what I’ll do is go walk. I’ll walk aimlessly. No, I’ll walk to Starbucks in Osaki, which is open late. I’ve eaten almost nothing. I’ll have a scone. And a latte, because he can’t. And I’ll sit and I’ll do some small amount of work. It’s late; there won’t be so many people.
So I’ll distract myself for a while that way. There are lights, and there’s ambient sound, and it’ll be the nearest to people I’ve been since receiving the call. It’ll be okay. I’ll do that. Maybe the scone and latte will even taste good, to boot.
I’m hungry. My stomach is growling and has been for a while. But I don’t want to eat. The scone tasted good, but I worked to get it down, a first for me. The latte is too much, too strong. And there are people in every seat.
The sounds are stronger than I wanted, the lights brighter. People are walking around looking for open seats. It’s Tuesday night - and a Monday-Tuesday, at that. I feel like I’m seated in their world, absent my own, like I’ve crossed realms.
In mine, he lives. In this one, where I find myself, there’s just sadness and discomfort and loss. And I’m trying to stoically sit here, looking like one of them, fitting in. But if anyone looked at me they’d see it. The red nose, the too-watery eyes. The hunching. The lack of eye-contact.
If they register me at all, maybe they just assume I’m sick. Or I’m drunk. But I’m not. I’m neither of those. I’m fine. Except I’m not at all fine. And this was too soon. And yet I sit here, because what the hell other option is there?
I got the scone in. I’ll finish the latte, because he would, and he’d enjoy it. Then I’ll do a little more work, trying to keep the moisture at bay, to fit in, to not panic or worse. Then I’ll wander again, until I’m tired enough to return and maybe, if I’m lucky, fall asleep.
It’s been 27 hours. There are miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I can hope to sleep.