Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 41
of tea? Always yes. Eventually he wouldn’t have to ask. He’d know. He doesn’t tell me he
loves me, but he does, he tells me secretly. I am so alone. I am so alone. I'm home now. I
decided on my walk home, that I will consider not going out tonight. I’m all fucked up, you
see. I am so fucked up that I have not yet decided on a stable place to keep my keys.
Somewhere to throw them after I get home from work every day, like you see in the movies.
At least I am not as scatter-brained as Jen Aniston in Along Came Polly, who, in one scene,
finds her keys in a beer crate in her fridge. I am not that scatter-brained. There are several
contenders. I can think of furniture that I am yet to buy that could also be a contender. A
small table, small enough to keep next to the front door, where I can put letters after I’ve
thumbed through them, not finding anything that sounds urgent or of any interest. The table
will remind me to open the unopened letters that did not sound urgent or interesting upon
first glance. I have never received a letter with a non-queen stamp on, a thick red stamp, a
rectangle bordering the words FINAL NOTICE. Must be another thing I’ve picked up on from
watching too many movies. I could’ve been a contender.
I think she might be dead now; she has to be. Maybe I should go back and check. Same old
shit day in day out. I decide to put my keys where I’ve left them once or twice before. Surely
this has been the place all along.
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