Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I locked the door.
I gulp back the rest of my wine.
Could I be remembering locking the door another day?
I don’t think so. The only time my mind seemed to be clear lately was in the morning, and the memory played out in my head like a video with no break.
I remember turning the key.
I remember the clank.
Which means…
I swallow. I need more wine, that’s what it means.
So I refill my glass and finally shut the refrigerator door. This pour is so full to the brim that I have to slurp a mouthful in order to not spill any when I walk. After I sip half an inch, I carry the glass with me to the door. My keys are in the bowl like always. I set my wine down and scoop them out like I remember I did this morning. My heart pounds as I turn the handle and the door creaks open. I peek my head out—left first, then right. But the damn light is still out in the hallway, and I’m too afraid to go back out there now. So I slam the door shut and lock it, leaning my head against the cold metal until my breathing returns to normal.
Not surprisingly, I finish off my second glass of wine faster than the first, chugging it back like it’s medicine I need for my health. I suppose maybe it is lately, my mental health anyway. I really need to relax, so I force myself to go sit in the living room and flick on the TV. But I take a seat on the far left of the couch, opposite from my normal spot. It gives me a clear view of the front door, allowing me to keep my eyes on the knob—waiting for someone to try and turn it again.
By my third glass of wine, I start flipping through the channels. Jeopardy! is on, so I occupy myself by playing along as I sip. Eventually, my shoulders loosen and I stop obsessing over the door. I even convince my tipsy self that what Mr. Hank said is right. One day bleeds into the next. I leave my apartment on autopilot. I’m remembering the lock-clanking sound from another day. After I get up to pour a fourth glass of wine, I return to sit in my usual spot. I can’t see the door anymore, and I don’t care. I slump into the cushions and lift my feet to the coffee table. My mind wanders now—back to what I talked about with Dr. Alexander earlier. How lonely I’ve been lately. If I had someone in my life, maybe they’d have been with me tonight when I came home, and I wouldn’t have had to rely on my eighty-year-old neighbor for protection.
I top off my glass once more, push the cork back into the nearly empty bottle of merlot, and head to the bedroom with my wine in hand. I’m physically tired, but my mind is still too stimulated from the events of the evening to wind down. So I pick up my phone, flip through the apps, then go to the app store and search dating. My finger hovers over the first one that pops up, considering. I rub my legs together, realizing I haven’t shaved them in at least a week. The bristly roughness leaves me annoyed—Jesus, how could I date when I’m such a mess? And what would come of it? One glance around the room shows remnants of my marriage. Our wedding picture is still on the dresser. Connor’s hockey bag, which I finally moved out of the entrance, still falls out of the closet every other time I open the door. I don’t even know why I still have all the reminders—yes, I loved my husband, but I hate him more now. Hate what he did to the Wright family, what he did to us. A few weeks back, Dr. Alexander had asked if I still kept memories of my marriage around. When I admitted to having a few, and told him how often I’d contemplated getting rid of them, he delved into why I hadn’t gone through with it yet and suggested perhaps I was punishing myself with the constant reminders. At the time, I didn’t think that was it, but as I sit here staring now, it certainly causes me pain to see them. Maybe the good doctor wasn’t that far off base after all.
An alert on my phone buzzes—just a CNN update, but it brings me back to the app store.
The dating app.
I stop thinking about it and press download. Hold my breath while the circle slowly fills, then open it. I tap through, creating a skeleton of a profile. I just want to do a search. Just want to know what it feels like to look at another man’s profile. Test the waters, know if it’s even something I should waste time considering. But it wants a photo of me. I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far, put myself fully out there. Though it won’t let me continue without uploading something. So I scroll through my old photos and find a photo Irina took while we were at a game in Canada what seems like a lifetime ago. It’s snowing out, the wind is blowing my hair so it covers almost my entire face, everything except a giant, painted-red smile. I look happy. Which is of course now a lie. But nonetheless, I upload it since I’m fairly certain no would recognize it as me.