Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Do something else. Fight crime. Be your own boss.
“A cookie sounds amazing. The tea would be wonderful too, and I could use a good chat.”
Mrs. Johnson deposits the flyers in the recycle bin at the front door and practically glows when she looks back my way. “Glad to hear it, dear. You were gone for longer than I thought you’d be. Was your vacation good? You came back with a bit of a tan, I see.”
“It was good. San Diego is really nice.”
“You were visiting your cousin down there?”
“That’s right,” I lie smoothly. I don’t normally enjoy telling tales, and I’m about as honest as I can be, but telling anyone that I actually had to go across the country to get divorce papers signed because I got married in Vegas when I was wasted doesn’t look very good. Yes, people make mistakes and all that, but that one is kind of the queen shit of all mistakes. Or the king shit. If we’re talking about the royalty shit scale here.
“Well then, you need to tell me all about it.”
“Okay, yeah. I’ll just throw my mail onto my counter and be right there.”
“I’ll have the tea waiting.”
For an older lady with a penchant for perms and pants with elastic waists, Mrs. Johnson is still quite spry. She might look ancient and a little bent over, but she hustles along at lightning speed. Or maybe senior lightning speed. She’s gone before I even turn back around from depositing my own flyers into the recycling bin.
I trudge up the set of stairs and down the hall to my apartment. I feel like I’ve been in a bit of a fog lately. Well, no, not a fog. A fug. I don’t actually know what a fug is, but it sounds totally appropriate. I was in a fug on the flight back home, and while I tried not to think about San Diego and a select group of people there. The fug persisted while I made war with my own brain and battled it out with my internal debate team.
The fact is, I might regret parts of it, but I made my choice, and I’m not going back. I could have had a certain amount of freedom doing something I love and helping make the world a better place, but at what price? At what cost to myself and a family that is a great unit without me? Even if I didn’t mess things up, I’d come to depend on them, and I’ve learned that depending on people gets you nowhere except heartbreak.
I make my way into my apartment, which seems small and grungy, even though it’s not really that bad. I was always so proud of having my own place, supporting myself, and not relying on anyone, which included not having debts I couldn’t pay back.
I flick on the kitchen light and stare at the little square space. It’s tidy and clean, at least, even if bland and dated. I ignore the flickering light overhead, remind myself to buy a new bulb tomorrow on my way home from work—and yes, isn’t that wildly exciting?—and start to flip through the stack of envelopes.
Generally, the only thing I ever get in the mail is bills and the occasional package if I’ve done some online shopping. The first envelope is indeed an electricity bill, the second is one for the Internet, and the third is a phone bill. I’m with Mrs. Johnson on this one. I’ve opted for e-bills so many times, yet somehow, I still keep getting the paper ones as well. The second last envelope is a credit card statement, which I do like to have a paper copy of, and the last envelope makes me freeze.
I recognize the official court seal on the corner immediately. Without pausing, I slip the nail of my index finger under the flap and make a little tear, which I then turn into a big tear almost frantically.
My hands are wavering, and I know I should be happy that this is no doubt my divorce papers, but I’m having a hard time mustering up feelings of relief or the joy that I thought undoing a mistake would bring. I don’t feel elated, and I don’t feel like a weight has been lifted off of me. Instead, I feel like I’ve eaten a ghost pepper taco times ten, and the bad gut-churning burn is just settling in after the fact.
Note: I couldn’t even eat one ghost pepper taco. I tried one once, and it hurt so bad that I immediately teared up and turned into a huge bawl bag simply because my sinuses were telling my eyes to water like a fountain, not because I was emotionally invested in it.
I pull out the letter, determined to read it quickly before heading over to Mrs. Johnson’s for a cup of tea, which will likely fix everything. If the tea doesn’t do the job, I know her cookies and company will make me feel a lot better.