What I'm listening to: Remember to Breathe (Dashboard Confessional)
It turned out the lock down yesterday was only a drill. But I still think it's funny.
Anyway, Thanksgiving is coming up (it's tomorrow, actually), so I made three pies this weekend--lemon icebox, pecan and pumpkin. The whole process took roughly five hours.
Which is a long time to spend baking pies. I think I'm all pied out, if that's a word. If not, then it should be.
I finally sewed up the foot-long hole in my pajama pants that I tore the day I moved here. The act felt extremely symbolic, as if sewing up my pants symbolized my healing and becoming almost myself after the move.
Or maybe I've just spent a little too much time in Honors English, which is far more likely.
Well, are you ready for Part Four of After the Crash? Here it is:
Reconstruction
It's Saturday again, and I have never once seen David.
However, every day, without fail, he speaks to me.
Today is no different.
"Are you feeling any better?" he asks.
"No," I say, honest as always.
"That's too bad."
"I guess so."
He tells me he had surgery today.
I tell him I heard him awake from it--he cried out five times.
He doesn't say anything and I wonder if I have offended him.
After two minutes of decadent silence, I gather the nerve to speak.
"Did I offend you? You weren't very loud, you know."
"No."
He doesn't sound very convincing.
I tell him it's very nice what he's doing for me.
Again, silence.
"I really do appreciate it," I try again. "So would you quit being so boneheaded about it?"
"Sorry."
I snort and turn over on my bed.
And guys think
girls are complicated?
Reconstruction. R-E-C-O-N-S-T...
For some reason, I can't remember how to spell it.
I used to be a good speller.
Before they invented Spell Check, that is.
When laziness has leaked into spelling, you know society is deteriorating.
"How do you spell reconstruction?" I ask.
He spells it for me.
"Why?" he has to ask.
"I don't know. We're both having reconstructive surgery."
He asks me why I didn't want to know reconstructive, not reconstruction.
For once, I have no idea.
The curtain is a light, Pepto-Bismolish pink, with small silver rings at the top.
If only it didn't remind me so much of medicine, I might actually like it.
For the first time in a long time, I begin to hope that I could be reconstructing more than my clavicle.
