The Routine of After
Counting hours, to what, I don’t quite know. Looking forward to an end: to the day, to the week. I waited for the end of winter, followed by summer, then fall, and now winter again. Waiting to finalize the finish line of my marriage, the end of the life I dreamt. To the guilt that I couldn’t keep safe—first my body, my career, my love.
I am noting nothing philosophical here. I am looking forward to the end of the usual day-to-days as well.
I can’t wait for my packet of cornflakes to be finished, but my grocery-run loop has to end, too. I rush conversations to their finish line when Ma calls from home. I rushed even the solo trip I took for a mental health break.
Rubbish to Toss Away
The tears are streaming into my barely edible “chicken casserole” and mashed potatoes on the overnight flight to Heathrow. My thumbs are raw and bleeding—a horrendous habit of skin picking I have not been able to break since I was five, always exacerbated by stress. The flight attendant notices my puffy eyes and pours me a second round of cheap prosecco, brimming over my plastic cup, just like the tears down my face. In her proper British accent, she whispers, “Enjoy, darling; get some sleep.” It’s as though she could feel my grief, my heavy chest and broken heart; the pit in my belly; the breath that is stuck.