Freshly-laundered curtains and table cloths hang outside on the line. I'll pack them to take over this morning.
I even remembered to pack a rug for the back porch, so I won't track in dirt as I'm unpacking. Still need a radio, though.
She's sleeping as though unconscious. She didn't move all night.
It's five in the morning now. I'll leave within the hour.
Somehow, my bedroom clock reset itself; I thought it was five when I awoke; it was four. Something to do with setting the alarm makes the time hour jump. It has happened before.
I don't care. I'm so tired and in so much pain, an hour more or less isn't going to make much difference. I can nap this afternoon, anyway.
She has no set time to go to work today. Let her sleep. Maybe she won't be so rigid this evening, if she's rested.
I'd like to talk to her about that person who invaded my home last night. I want to tell her how it hurts to be perceived as a threat to homeland security.
I'm going to borrow on that predatory loan again this month. She said not to, that I can pay back rent, deposits, later. But I want to build a cat kennel. I want to pay her back. I don't want money becoming a problem between us.
And I certainly don't want things thrown up in my face. I couldn't stand that.
So, I'd rather pay ten percent interest for the priviledge of borrowing my own money from myself than be a second class citizen in my own home.
Hopefully, once we're settled from this move, I can sell more radio, and more often, too.
I feel tainted, coated with a film of inadequacy. No doubt, it's my own, internalized stuff. I can't blame her for asking questions. In fact, I prefer that she do. I hate unspoken and hidden agendas; they'll always sneak up and bite me in the butt later. It's best I encourage her to say what she means, let her know she has permission to be honest and blunt.
Not taking it personally: that's the challenge.
And my ego's frail right now. I'm dirty; I'm tired; I'm in pain. I'm looking over the relics of my life as I pack and feeling old losses and memories. It's easy for me to interpret things as evidence of my failure.
We're on thin ice right now. This could blow into a major storm. I need to monitor myself, even though I'm tired. I need to be conscious of my own crap, so as not to lay it on her or this relationship.
Damage threatens.
I'm sneaking my 3rd cigarette before daylight, hoping the fans and air conditioner will push the smoke outdoors and not to the bedroom where she sleeps.
Miss Thing, my Siamese, is playing mouse with some litter on the floor in the hallway. I hope she doesn't wake my girl.
It'll help to have seperate rooms: I can keep the cats and dog away from her. She likes animals, but she likes order, too. And she's a farm girl who feels animals should be outside.
Porkchop will have a bed in the kitchen, for nights my girl visits my room. And I'll build some cat trees: platforms on two-by-four pedistals, covered in carpetting.
There's an attic. I'm going to check it out as potential cat space, too. And storage, of course.
I'm trying very hard not to wring my girl's neck right now. Not literally, of course.
But I am capable of violence. I'm capable of cruelty and have flirted with that with her, to my regret.
I don't want my fragile ego to cause unnecessary damage.
I want this move to be a healing and nurturing thing.
I see the first whisps of sunlight filtering through the tarps outside. It'll be time to leave soon.
I'll have to fumble in the dark bedroom for my clothes. That was bad planning. I should bring them, and anything else I need to take, out into the living room, so I won't disturb her.
My kitchen looks sparse and tossed. Alien. Sad. Lonely. Returning to a state of slum hovel. Entropy.
I won't miss this building.
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