I woke up yesterday morning like I could conquer the world. As I cheerfully peeled back my comforter and jumped to my feet, I started to put on my work uniform: an oversized hoodie, high ponytail, boyfriend sweatpants and slippers. Bra optional.
Nothing could stop me.
I had a full day of writing ahead which meant I needed to brew 12 cups of coffee. I started humming to myself the sweet melodies of a life well lived when like a flash of lightening, the record of joy screeched to a horrifying halt.
My mouth went dry. My pulse high. I was frozen solid. I tried to gulp air, but it felt like I was swallowing sand. No, not now, God. No. I can’t. Please. Not now.
Nyquil was out on the counter, tipped on its side. A tiny plastic cup was upside down dripping its contents. Cough drop wrappers stuck in the pool of purple goo like flies trying to break free from those weird sticky thingies people hang from the ceilings when they’re hoarders.
A man cold was in my house.
I gripped the counter, my knees trembled. I can’t have a man cold in my house. Not this week. Not ever.