I'd have crawled across a sea of glass if I had known it was him at the door.
But the brat next door keeps ding dong ditching or asking to play with the dog and I don't feel like answering anymore and every time the telephone rings I tell them "Mommy isn't home right now," even though the idea of kids is a nightmare. I've started treating my own doorbell as a telemarketing call.
'Sorry, I'm not home,' even though I haven't left the house in three days and my car is in still the driveway and even my dog gets up when the doorbell rings but I can't bring myself to anymore.
If I had known it was him at the door I would've gone to bed early last night instead of staring at my ceiling for four hours. I would've taken out the trash so this place wouldn't smell like a goddamn cemetery. I would've done my makeup - maybe. I would've let that brat give my dog some company, or maybe some exercise.
(I would've had a shot by now. For the nerves.)
I would've deleted his phone number. I would have left his stuff in a box outside.
Instead, I am laying on my couch in stained sweats, feeling mildly like I'm hungover, crying, watching every movie where the dog dies, all red and blotchy and not in the mood to move.
And the second bell rings and I almost tell the kid to leave me alone because I don't want to deal with him today but I'm too tired to care so I stay and try to fall asleep to my movie, but I hear his knock. I hear his damn knock firm against the door, already giving up on the telemarketing, trying to coax me outside with every splinter of the door under his weight. I'd have crawled across a sea of glass if I knew it would be him at the door. Knowing now, I'd have walked over lava barefoot or swam through a pool of needles or gotten a thousand tiny paper cuts if it would have let me be anywhere else but here.
But the brat next door keeps ding dong ditching or asking to play with the dog and I don't feel like answering anymore and every time the telephone rings I tell them "Mommy isn't home right now," even though the idea of kids is a nightmare. I've started treating my own doorbell as a telemarketing call.
'Sorry, I'm not home,' even though I haven't left the house in three days and my car is in still the driveway and even my dog gets up when the doorbell rings but I can't bring myself to anymore.
If I had known it was him at the door I would've gone to bed early last night instead of staring at my ceiling for four hours. I would've taken out the trash so this place wouldn't smell like a goddamn cemetery. I would've done my makeup - maybe. I would've let that brat give my dog some company, or maybe some exercise.
(I would've had a shot by now. For the nerves.)
I would've deleted his phone number. I would have left his stuff in a box outside.
Instead, I am laying on my couch in stained sweats, feeling mildly like I'm hungover, crying, watching every movie where the dog dies, all red and blotchy and not in the mood to move.
And the second bell rings and I almost tell the kid to leave me alone because I don't want to deal with him today but I'm too tired to care so I stay and try to fall asleep to my movie, but I hear his knock. I hear his damn knock firm against the door, already giving up on the telemarketing, trying to coax me outside with every splinter of the door under his weight. I'd have crawled across a sea of glass if I knew it would be him at the door. Knowing now, I'd have walked over lava barefoot or swam through a pool of needles or gotten a thousand tiny paper cuts if it would have let me be anywhere else but here.
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