Sometimes he hits me three or four times a day. Somedays in the morning, first thing as I open my eyes. Other times he waits till I'm perfect, and by perfect I mean with the perfect blow out. Somedays i think i'll escape the hit. Somedays I know it's only a matter of time. There's never actually any violence. Just words. And i'm going to say that words are worse than knives sometimes.
There are days when I want to hit back. Lash out. Strike. Kill. Murder. There are days where i wait for the phone to ring. Or the door bell to buzz. The story in my head plays the same, regardless of the season. My very own screen play is what keeps me from going crazy. Okay, and maybe a hit or two of lithium.
The story always involves a big bulky police officer. He arrives at my door a little past 6pm. His hat's in his hands and his hand is over his heart. His smile is upside down. I swear there's a tear in his eye. Are you Laurin, he'll manage to finally say. I can tell he smells dinner cooking. I quietly invite him into my kitchen and offer him a cup of coffee. Sam James. Toronto style. This large man in my white kitchen accepts my latte and sits down. He doesn't need to speak, because i already know the story. After all, I've written it. Time and time again. Though today is the first day i'm writing it down. For real. It's never been on paper or screen before now. Ever. If you don't have anything nice to write, then don't. But i digress
So this time I see the tear flop down his chiseled cheek. Who would notice a sexy officer at a moment like this? His face is young, but worn. Rugged maybe? Yeah, i guess that's the word for it. He can't seem to look me in the eye. I don't need him to.
And then the doorbell rings. Three more coffees to make. I'm prepared, but if I knew i was getting so much company, I might have changed my pants. These looked an awful lot like pyjamas. That's what he said. Ironically, it was the LAST thing he said. As he was walking out of the house that morning. I was heading for the school drop off. 8:50am like I always do. I opted out of real clothes that morning. And a shower. I just hadn't found the time. What with running a load of dishes. And a pile of laundry. Emptying the dishwasher. Then filling it with the sunday night fun. Making two lunches and preparing the gourmet breakfasts my two have come to expect.
Yeah, I decided to waltz around the corner in my pjs that day. But not like weird pyjamas filled with pink sheep and hello kitty faces. These were GAP BODY heather grey striped pants. To me they were quite cute. Sexy, no. They looked like yoga pants. They might have been. Regardless. It was 8:50am, I was walking around the corner. To a public school. Then I was going to walk home. Shower. And most likely don another pair of similar fitting pants. In black.
But back to my house full of blue. Four cops all roughly 7 years younger than me. Each more anxious than the next. Didn't they do this all the time? Wasn't I just another call on the beat? I think that's what they call it, right?
And so we sat and chatted over our lattes. Avoiding the obvious. I was happy with the state of my hair. And my lip gloss.
I took the news like I champ. I took it with a tear in my eye and a smile in my heart. The story was finally over. I couldn't have written a better ending myself. To be continued
