On my own

On my own, I order pizza with sausage, pizza with pepperoni, pizza with insane amounts of cheese. On my own, the dishes sit in the sink past one meal, and the counter fills with old leftovers from a cleaning spree that emptied the fridge but fizzles after the containers reach the counter.

I forget to clean the litter box, or take out the trash, though it reaches the overdue mark with the load after load of dirt and dust that I empty after each mad vacuuming.

I listen to Alabama Public Radio all night, through Thistle & Shamrock and strange Irish throat singers, and All Things Acoustic, and Woodsongs Old-Time Radio Hour, and I stay up late thinking about things I want to write.

On my own, I turn on low lighting and stay up late, listening to mournful female singers like Suzanne Vega. I watch Fergus watching me from the bed, waiting for me to go to sleep so he can curl up above my head, and I wonder at how much intelligence I see in his eyes.

I stay up late because I know I won't be able to sleep, know that I'll toss and turn without Tim by my side. I wake up abruptly, without anyone to curl up against but Olivia with her rough kitty tongue and death breath.

On my own, I clean, or I don't. I revel in quiet, empty, clean rooms, or I don't see anything at all.