“It’s one of those days.”

She tosses her phone as soon as she presses send, then rolls over. There is no way she is doing anything that can’t be done with her head on the pillow. Shifting a little to give her leg some freedom, she hits it.


“Maybe I should ask him to bring some food.”

Kicking the phone and stretching her hands, her fingers dance around, feeling for the soft fluffy case that always gave her life; now it’s annoying. She pats the bed down a couple of times. Nothing. That’s all the strength she has, and her head is not getting off the pillow.

She’ll cook some eggs; there might be cake left, she’ll be okay.

Days change so quickly for her; one minute feels like heaven, and the next has the devil sitting on her uterus, hormones ravaging her body, anger chocking her, anxiety sinking to the deepest places. It takes everything to stay sane, and when she can’t, she dances it off, maybe smokes, maybe masturbates.

Today she has nothing.

It will consume her, slowly. Then, as her eyes close, she drifts and will find herself in a villa at the coast with a view of the beach. Now, dreaming of the future, she foresees for herself one that she has seen for a very long time. Perhaps one day.

As the white curtains flatter, the palm trees dance. Maybe she should take a walk. The manicured grass will ground her; heaven knows she needs it. The hot sand will her feel alive. Life has her drifting, not recognizing what she has. It’s easy to focus on the bad.

Maybe she should swim; it’s been a while. The pool doesn’t scare as much as it used to, but she only looks at the ocean. When she is brave, she sits on a boat and dips her fingers in the water. It’s the way it gushes through her, how she can feel it, not just on the fingers; it seeps under her skin, into her bloodstream, and onto her heart, how it feeds her soul.

She knows that if she sits upon the water, if she touches it, the universe will speak, reminding her of the places that lack.

The side of the bed is always empty as she watches the sunset, the un-held hand that clutches crystals to feel alive, the stories that only make it to a page that will never see the light.

The ache for a touch, another soul in the room that understands that divinity has a cost. An understanding that humanity is imperfection and authenticity is honest, genuine, and most times uncomfortable. That the tears on the pillow are essential to ensure that everything grows in its time.

The tears on her pillow.

Tears on her pillow?

Why is her pillow so wet? How long has she been crying? She wonders.

Rattling keys.

Someone is at the door.

Maybe it’s her neighbour; that door is awfully close.

Uncomfortably so.

No, that’s her door.

Someone is opening it.

“This is how I die; I have always known it. “

Alone and hungry in bed.

“I am guessing some chicken is welcome?”

A smile by the door accompanies the most obvious question.

Intruders don’t ask for chicken orders, do they?

“Can I join you for a bit?”

He stands tall by the door frame. Some height is unnecessary. She nods weakly.

Breath escapes his lips, relief.

Today might be one of those days, but as he slides under the sheets and extends his hands to let her into an embrace she needed more than she knew, something is alright. In a few minutes, she will ask him to heat some food for her. Those will be the first and only words she speaks, and that is alright.

She is not on the beach.

She is here, now.

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