Basically, the only safe risks are the water bottles, but they don’t do much for nourishment.
With the exception of the sandwich and chips Stephen brought over Saturday night, I haven’t given eating too much thought.
Or...unpacking.
Or...shopping for food.
Or...doing laundry.
Or...showering.
As I snuggle under my covers, I give the last one—showering—more thought. With my nose scrunched, I move it back outside the blankets and I make myself a deal. The next time I wake, showering will be on the agenda.
In the meantime, I prefer sleep.
As my temples pound, I’m aware that this self-imposed reprieve from life can’t last forever.
On Monday morning, I’ll need to go to work. I’ll need to face Neil Butler and thank him for his faith in me. Yes, I know if he stopped by at this moment, faith wouldn’t be high on his list. Pity might have a higher ranking. That’s why I’m staying put under the covers, just me and my stinky self.
Facing the shower means facing life, and I’m not ready to make that move.
I need some more time to wallow in my own heartache.
And headache.
Does lack of food cause a headache?
I decide to think about that later if I can come up with something to eat.
Maybe I could add mustard to what’s remaining of my houseplants and call it a salad?
Are houseplants edible?
Maybe I should Google that shit first.
When Stephen and I first touched down at Heathrow, I turned on my phone long enough to see that I didn’t have a return email from Trevor. I did have multiple voice mails from Kimbra and even one from Duncan, which seemed strange. I’m assuming that he’s probably simply being a good husband.
Maybe one day I’ll listen to them and find out what they say.
Right now, I prefer the company of dreams.
Dreams are truly magical places filled with memories and imagination. In dreams I can do things I could never do in reality. I can fly. I can transport myself back to New York, to Trevor’s apartment, to his fire escape. And then, in the blink of an eye, we’re together in Central Park, at Serendipity 3, or in his bed. The possibilities are endless, and in dreams, the destinations aren’t conscious. Each time I close my eyes, it’s like an adventure waiting to happen.
When I first arrived home, I turned on the television. I’m not sure why. I think it was to hear voices. Truly, I should have thought of it earlier. There were banners and flags everywhere as I Ubered home. Of course, at that time, none of it was registering. I’ll blame it on the flight or the wine. Either way... it has begun.
The royal wedding.
The greatest display of love since Romeo and Juliet.
The prince has finally found his princess.
Everyone is overjoyed.
And it’s a big deal.
The guests, crowds, royal family, and state officials.
Streets are blockaded and the masses are gathering.
The festivities don’t even start for a few days, but the entire world is abuzz with love.
True love.
I pull the covers closer to my chin.
Well, screw them.
It’s a wonder that Stephen and I made it home. The lady arranging our flight wasn’t kidding that changing our flights was out of the question. This place is a madhouse, complete with minute-by-minute coverage broadcast around the world.
Unable to listen anymore about the happy couple, I turned off the television. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I will be able to catch it later. There’s no doubt that the live coverage will be going on for days, and after that, it will all be available on cable TV and YouTube.
My lack of interest in the impending nuptials can’t be blamed on my American roots. I’m actually a fan of the royals. I always have been. I even love the history: King Henry VIII, the Tudors and Windsors, the White Queen and the Red Queen. My current disinterest stems more from my melancholy mood.
I almost said bitchy, but truthfully, bitchy went out the window as I walked out on Vicky’s insulting offer.
The energy necessary to be bitchy dissipated by the second as I bit my tongue, stopping all the words I wanted to say, smiled politely, thanked Vicky for her consideration, and told her that she and the entire lingerie division was welcome, considering the fact that Stephen and I had traveled to New York on a moment’s notice, saved their show, and increased their sales. I then stood, told everyone in attendance that I would be returning to London and to juniors since the counteroffer I’d received from Neil was too good to pass up. I then bid everyone goodbye, leaving Vicky’s shitty offer sitting unsigned on the table as she stared at me with her mouth agape. I did get the feeling she didn’t know about Neil Butler’s counteroffer, which gave me a smidgen of satisfaction.
I left so quickly that I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to Chantilly or others I’d come to like in the lingerie department. The truth is that I had to leave while my head was still high and eyes were without tears.
Needless to say, that all changed the moment I walked out the doors and onto Fifth Avenue.
Now, without the adrenaline necessary to do more, I once again surrender to dreamland.
Before I slip away, I contemplate checking the time, but if I do, my rational mind will tell me that people shouldn’t be sleeping at four on a Sunday afternoon. I’m not ready to listen to my rational mind. Besides, my body still believes that four in the afternoon in London is ten in the morning in New York.
The tips of my lips turn upward and tears return to my eyes as I recall a week ago. Last Sunday at ten in the morning, I was still in Trevor’s bed. After my little fashion show during the middle of the night, we were both out for the count.
Coma by cannoli.
We woke in time for another round of much sweeter lovemaking, bagels and coffee, and then a private shower concert before going to Duncan and Kimbra’s. No wonder I was embarrassed when Kimbra brought up death by cannoli. I was possibly one more crazy sex round away from being a victim.
But not anymore...
Cannoli will only come in my dreams.
I close my eyes and recall...I’m almost to that place where sleep comes, erasing reality...
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
“What the hell?” I ask, muttering to myself as I try to decipher the sound of pounding. “Is someone doing construction?”
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
“On a Sunday?”
Shit.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
No, someone is knocking—no, pounding—on my front door. I consider my possibilities. If I hide under my blankets, maybe whoever it is will leave. It’s not exactly like I’m up for visitors.
Another round of loud, annoying knocks.
Maybe it’s the police? Someone reported the scent of dying.
I lower my nose under the blanket.
No, it isn’t that bad.
Maybe it’s Stephen with food.
But wouldn’t he call?
It’s then I remember my phone is still off.
For no other reason than the preservation of my houseplants and stopping them from becoming salad—because I remembered that I do have some expired salad dressing in my refrigerator that may work better than mustard if my plants aren’t poisonous—I force myself to get out of bed and place one foot in front of the other.
Too occupied with the banging on the door and the pounding in my head, I barely notice my haggard appearance or wrinkled sleep clothes.