The morning sun peeked in on a grouchy Jo lay sprawled on her bed, refusing to open her eyes and surrender her dreams to a morning that she believed was meant to be slept in. But then again, which morning is not? I stretched my hand out for the worn out grey cellphone which once looked sleek and executive-ish. Well, I really still think it does, but sometimes I choose to give in to the popular belief. No new messages.
Tedd was forgotten and left in a weird position on the bed like he had been the past few days -- no longer getting the morning kisses that I so lovingly gave during the first few weeks of his arrival. He no longer got tucked in nicely before I leave the house either. I started on the usual morning routine -- 5 minutes pondering whether to shower or brush my teeth first. My mouth felt awfully dry, like a plant left out in the hot afternoon without being watered, so I brought my legs over the fence, stepping into the kitchen. The air smelt of isolation and helplessness, and of course stank of the natural consequence of putting water in Lola's dish. I was set on auto-pilot and soon tuned off to my surroundings, neglecting the morning tenderness I usually offer Lola.
I had guessed the day would be different, but I certainly did not expect the ridiculous feelings I got in the different parts of my body. My heart felt like an old rag wrenched of all the different pleasant tastes it was once soaked in, now dry with a stale feel. The body felt denser, and moving around became a chore. Muscles at the ends of my mouth seemed to have gone on strike, and no matter how I tried, I could not muster a smile. I tried to shrug off these weird sensations, but my shoulders turned rebellious. I gave up trying to make myself feel better. There was only one cure, which was definitely beyond the means of a leo with any amount of pride intact. Yes, everything went haywire but useless pride remained stubborn.
The day dragged on, and I realised I had not found the hours of a day so unbearable for a few weeks now. The creases in the heart could not be ironed out, and the wrung feeling of a rag still clung on steadily, showing no sign of surrendering. I went around on my chores like a robot with its movements programmed, not remembering how I survived those dreary hours.
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I stood in front of the mirror that sretched across the length of the wall, bending over the evil magnifier that sadistically enlarged all the blemishes on my face which at that moment reflected the many scars in me. It was the last run for the production that we had spent so many hours and sleepless nights over, but my mind was somewhere else. Stuck to a memory of a certain someone with her back turned to me.
The conversation over the phone last night did not help to clarify the doubts I had in my head, but I was looking forward to a resolution around 8 plus p.m., and it came. It felt as if a strong gust of wind had swept the clouds out of my head, and I was finally able to concentrate. Curtain call, jealousy, wine, picture-taking, shots. The six shots did not take fill my head with the solace that they always offered, but made my heart and mind weak again. I started hammering away at the inner wall of pride, and waited to see the grassland that I had hoped would emerge.
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(editted at 6:15om, 5 April 2005)