I fix myself a strawberry cocktail tonight: fresh strawberries, rose wine, and prosecco. It's supposed to have simple syrup in it as well, but I want it tart and bright. The berries are intense, sharply fragrant, and the coolness of the evening feel good on my cheek that are flushed from my run, workout, then the steam rooms afterward.
Migraine raw: all a thousand pieces of the glass of myself, and just in time for Monday. Today at work, my casual work friend asks about my weekend, and I can tell my own transparency and vulnerability spilling through as I tell her my small disappointments and the things that scared me. She says, "ohhh Jess" in sympathy before I'm finished, and I half-love her for just using my name.
I'm susceptible and aware of the fact, aware of my own dubious breeding and maturity, too. She's one of those nice Cville sorts born and raised there, and she possesses that easy, graceful command of her own attention. The gift of the effervescent Right Word, delivered with perfect kindness and yet structured distance. I'm not complaining at all. I would never be anything but admiring of the whole suite of qualities. (At least in the great score of my flaws, the pathetic trap that is to be jealous of another woman's skills or beauty has never entered in.) But I see it, and it makes me feel absurdly grateful and lonely both.
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Yesterday, feeling glum and fractured and finally able to drive, I went out and bought myself a dumbass dress. It's less of a dress and more of a trifle or a confectionery. It's white with flowers and a deep, long skirt that cuts down in a series of tiers down my long legs, cut tight at the waist. I feel like I was only still returning to my body from some fog when I bought it, which means it probably won't look ridiculous on me at all.
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