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For the past fifteen minutes, I've been watching the cursor blinking on blaring white space with one eye... the other, covered by the hand that's supporting my chin. My mood, too ambiguous to translate. When is "enough" enough? This black cloud has been hovering on the horizon, for most of the day... the supposed big showdown, alluded to by her note on the coffeemaker in the morning. I took my mind off of the inevitable by: *charging parts *a trip to the auto graveyard *tracing the oldest property line, excavating a rusty barbed-wire fence from under downed timber and through seemingly miles of thorns, without a blade *replacing the hardtop on the Miata until I can find a replacement convertible (cold rain and wind on the back of the neck does not a pleasurable ride make) *Dismantling the fuel pump and scouring tar-like oil deposits from the donor *grilling some salmon and tuna for dinner ...and waiting for the confrontation. Which never really came. Four days of torment, ended with her comment "it's all my problem." But it's mine, too... though this rollercoaster has become tiresome. It's my problem, since I don't know if I want to ride anymore. Either bolt for the exit, taking nothing but the land I grew up on... or staying strapped in, and becoming the wretched middle-aged philanderer that I've never wanted to be. Yeah, it's like a broken record. No wonder the words aren't working. |
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