I write this from a country pub on the same property as the small cottage I’ve booked for myself the next two nights. It’s the kind of cottage I should be sharing with a lover or boyfriend. Fireplace, king bed, outdoor spa, indoor soaker tub, fluffy white bathrobes. But despite three men asking if they can join me, I’m staying here solo. Christmas dinner is over and my house (and I) have fully recovered.
I’m here to write. But what I’ve done so far is eat fish tacos, drink a large glass of local Chardonnay, unsuccessfully try to figure out how to import my posts into Scrivener, flirt with my hot bartender, talk to the adorable young couple next to me, and give the female some perspective on her parent’s divorce this summer, after 37 years of marriage. She was bereft that her Mom is already dating someone, who showed up for Christmas dinner. Continue reading →
I can’t even recall exactly when first contact was made with Tony. I had several weeks of silence, which was good for me. Strangely perhaps, the subsequent contact didn’t pull me back in but instead, helped me move on.
It’s been a long journey to get to this point. Tony’s duplicity is no surprise, nor is his ability to obfuscate and avoid conversations that reveal too much truth. He’s an expert.
So I’m not in any way going to suggest surprise at any of those things.
It was three weeks ago tomorrow when I broke my leg, and I’ve left my house only twice since. Once to go to a holiday concert at my son’s school (the day after I came home from the hospital; still not sure how I managed), and once to go to my Mom’s for Christmas eve and morning.
It feels like a blur. I can hardly believe it’s been three weeks; it seems like a long weekend. But the hospital stay, after-effects of surgery, taking Oxycontin as a painkiller, and the monotony of laying on my couch every single day and watching TV or movies probably have something to do with that.