cold as ice
It’s a familiar scene. A small kitchen, faded sunlight coming in through the window. The sound of violins and pianos and cellos and trumpets…symphonies and concertos floating through the air. Something is boiling on the stove. Or bread is rising in the oven. Or the scream of a hand mixer drowns out the music coming from the radio as cream cheese and vanilla and butter and salt and sugar blend together to create something divine.
You keep your hair out of your eyes, there’s flour on your shirt, your feet ache from standing so long as you toil away, sweat forming on your brow. Cooking. Baking. And the soothing sounds of a nocturne that makes you stop stirring what is in the pot or bending down to look into the oven, and stare off into nothing because you dream of something better. What that something is you’ll never know, but that music…that lonely piano or crying violin speaks of it with every note it plays.
Since moving into my house I have missed a lot of things I didn’t think I would. Like the normalcy of being able to bake or cook whenever I would like and not have to get up early to drive to my parents house to bake more than six cookies at a time. Or watching TV when I’m bored, catching the nightly news. I work six days a week, which is more than inconvenient as it leaves no chance to plan anything. Sunday is my only day to catch up and that means on sleep as well as doing anything personal.
I need to get my driver’s license changed over to my new address—and my new weight.
My left arm is considerably darker than my right from driving.
You know what is so tedious? That I can have conversations with any other person at work at length without it being a problem, but the second he comes by all eyes and ears are trained on us. Or so he assumes. I asked him—after having talked to several other people for longer than I was speaking to him—if he had slept well last night since he looked tired. His eyes shifted around the empty showroom and he said, “I’m not going to have a personal conversation with you at work. You know that.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. I turned sharply on my heel, got a drink from the water fountain and went back to my office with him calling out, “It’s nothing personal, Rebekah—” but he cut himself off when I didn’t look at him and punched in the code to get my office open.
That’s the problem…he feels like when I obey his wishes that I’m doing it out of anger only. Yes it is annoying to be so distant from him at work, but I understand. That he takes issue with me obeying him is what is so irritating. How else am I to respond when he says something like that? Stay there and talk? No. I stopped and walked away. But he didn’t like that either. MAKE UP YOUR MIND.
Everyone else said I looked nice today in my leggings and cleavage-baring top and heels. “You must be going out tonight!” they said. I wish…
The finance manager exclaimed as I walked in, “Ooh, girl!” giving me a once over. It was sweet.
I just heard his familiar laugh. My eyes automatically narrowed.
