[ by the time he starts milling about, cluttering the silence with gentle clinks and thuds, the whiskey bottle is lying drained on its side and she has turned over to stare at the rum bottle, within reaching distance. after it goes on for a while, she fools herself into thinking it's Malcolm, who has been known to sneak quietly in and replace a grocery or two (often peanut butter) and straighten a couple things out while he's there. insomnia is what keeps her awake but the noise doesn't hurt, punctuating the monotony of her repetitive non-thoughts.
it's just a series of questions, shuffled and droned over and over again to the point that they might as well be nonsense. in her head, the question mark has worn out its inflection and it plays like one long, never-ending run-on sentence. How much of her is an inkblot of his dead wife? How can she claim that it matters? Were those flowers of his bought in her memory? Did he let them die to sharpen the distinction between her and Maria or to dull it? If he's using her for that, what is she using him for? And if she's not using him, and he's not using her, where does that leave them? And with what?
eventually the noises die away and Jess catches up to the silence when her tongue runs dry. she wades into it with a mouthful of rum and the same track playing in her head. she's been sick of it for hours but sticks to it stubbornly when memories trickle in, of Frank lying beside her, of him straining underneath her, of him saying her name in full, which he never did, of a body collapsing on top of her and caging her under it with weak arms that never let go. then, the ceaselessly tangled string of questions is pulled over almost like a blanket or a pillow in which to smother herself. a couple of times, her eyes sink leadenly behind her eyelids, but something primitive in her must know she's not alone so she mercifully doesn't sleep.
after several long hours and no time at all, the room begins to lighten as day breaks. a shot or two remains in the rum bottle; Jess takes it with her into the bathroom, drinks it on the toilet and tosses it in the trash for her environmentally conscious assistant to fish out later. she stays in the shower a long time, wondering if Frank will be gone when she gets out. it's difficult to get going, actually washing her hair and body, but once she starts, the tasks sort of carry themselves out, and then her biggest obstacle is shutting the water off. as if an entire day or week in there would make her feel any cleaner. it's stupid and all she can do is tell herself it's stupid until the short supply of hot water ushers her out. she wraps a towel around her chest and goes directly from the bathroom to the kitchen to put on coffee. for however long it's hot, it might steam away the layer of grime she still feels between her skin and the water drying on it.
strung out on her own uninterrupted bullshit, Jess doesn't know if it's waking or dream logic that keeps her from entering her living room in the hope that her denial itself will render it empty. ]
no subject
it's just a series of questions, shuffled and droned over and over again to the point that they might as well be nonsense. in her head, the question mark has worn out its inflection and it plays like one long, never-ending run-on sentence. How much of her is an inkblot of his dead wife? How can she claim that it matters? Were those flowers of his bought in her memory? Did he let them die to sharpen the distinction between her and Maria or to dull it? If he's using her for that, what is she using him for? And if she's not using him, and he's not using her, where does that leave them? And with what?
eventually the noises die away and Jess catches up to the silence when her tongue runs dry. she wades into it with a mouthful of rum and the same track playing in her head. she's been sick of it for hours but sticks to it stubbornly when memories trickle in, of Frank lying beside her, of him straining underneath her, of him saying her name in full, which he never did, of a body collapsing on top of her and caging her under it with weak arms that never let go. then, the ceaselessly tangled string of questions is pulled over almost like a blanket or a pillow in which to smother herself. a couple of times, her eyes sink leadenly behind her eyelids, but something primitive in her must know she's not alone so she mercifully doesn't sleep.
after several long hours and no time at all, the room begins to lighten as day breaks. a shot or two remains in the rum bottle; Jess takes it with her into the bathroom, drinks it on the toilet and tosses it in the trash for her environmentally conscious assistant to fish out later. she stays in the shower a long time, wondering if Frank will be gone when she gets out. it's difficult to get going, actually washing her hair and body, but once she starts, the tasks sort of carry themselves out, and then her biggest obstacle is shutting the water off. as if an entire day or week in there would make her feel any cleaner. it's stupid and all she can do is tell herself it's stupid until the short supply of hot water ushers her out. she wraps a towel around her chest and goes directly from the bathroom to the kitchen to put on coffee. for however long it's hot, it might steam away the layer of grime she still feels between her skin and the water drying on it.
strung out on her own uninterrupted bullshit, Jess doesn't know if it's waking or dream logic that keeps her from entering her living room in the hope that her denial itself will render it empty. ]