(cont.)

She tossed her purse on the coffee table next to the door, and began her descent up the stairs while unbuttoning her constricting clothing.Once in her bedroom, she let the vest and shirt slip off behind her as she kicked off the beautiful, painful shoes. She swiftly unbuckled her belt and let the slacks slide to the floor as well. She flopped down on the bed in the fading light and lifted her legs in the air to remove the black trouser socks that left red marks on her calves.

The night-shadows were beginning to creep into the room. She laid in the dimness and looked at the ceiling, thinking about him. She turned her head to the right and gazed at herself in the full-length mirror. He always liked that mirror there. Damn him. She shifted her body the other direction, away from the empty reminder, the image of her alone on the bed. A white cat strolled into the room and immediately settled himself on the black slacks on the floor.

"Goddamnit, why only the black clothes, you little monster?" she muttered as she rose from the bed and poked the cat with a bare toe as she passed him. He rolled over on his back and swatted at her in response.

She dug through her antique mahogany dresser and pulled out a ratty pair of men's boxers and a gray knit tank top. As she pulled the clothes on, the bed caught her eye again. She grabbed one of the thick posts and gave it a good shove, sending the bed skidding across the hardwood floor and the cat running for his life. She jumped onto the bed, walked to the other side, jumped off and shoved it from the other side. She continued this process, while intermittently bouncing on the bed to feel her head touch canopy, until she had the bed moved to the opposite wall, against the big windows and away from the infernal, mocking mirror.

A thin film of sweat covered her as she plopped down on the bed and bounced to the floor. She ran the back of her hand across her forehead and wiped the dampness on her boxers. She walked into the bathroom to grab a rubber band to pull back her long mahogany hair, and then wandered downstairs in search of dinner.

Instead, she threw herself down on the couch, flipped on the TV and picked up the newspaper to look at movie listings. She found the movie she wanted, noted the time, and made the executive decision to stay home; it was 90210 night. She picked up the cordless phone lying next to her on the couch and called Pizza Hut for the third time that week. She made a mental note to buy stock in the company as she ordered her usual.

She reached under the large glass coffee table for the plastic bag, and pulled out the cross-stitch angel that she had been attempting to complete for five years. She was determined that this was the year her mother would receive it for Christmas.

The phone rang. She hunted for it, and finally realized she was sitting on it, answering it on the fourth ring.

"Speak your mind."

"Hello, this is Theresa from AT&T…"

Click. She rolled her eyes, put the damned angel down, and stomped into the kitchen. She attacked the mound of dirty dishes, chiseling off petrified cheese and withered, wrinkly mushrooms. She forged on through crusted milk residue on glasses, but was forced to retreat when she uncovered the spaghetti pot from earlier in the week.

Ugh.

She shuffled back into the living room, turned off the TV, and put in a CD. She began to listlessly clean the living room, half-heartedly picking up strewn books and clothes, shifting the junk from spot to spot. The doorbell saved her, and she sunk into the couch again to consume the hot, cheesy slices of pizza. She flipped the TV back on, just in time to see Brandon and Kelly's wedding turn to shit. She zapped off the TV and called her mother.

After twenty minutes of zoning out and grunting responses to Spanish Inquisition, she excused herself to clean the house. She tossed in another CD, marched the pizza box into the kitchen and stashed it in the refrigerator, glanced one more time at the red, chunky spaghetti pot, and flipped off the kitchen light. Tomorrow.

She glanced at the clock and groaned that it was only 9pm. Some days never seem to end.

The medicine cabinet beckoned her, and she mechanically consumed her ritualistic sleep-aid. She secured the bottom floor of the house and retreated up the dark stairs to the solace of her big, newly-placed bed.

She slumped into the bathroom and stared intently at the colorful glass toothbrush holder. The shove of a cat rubbing itself on her ankles made her shake her head and reach for her toothbrush, alone in its container. She turned off the bathroom light and untangled her body from the remainder of its clothing as she crawled into bed. The two cats raced up the bed to join her, grooming each other on her feather comforter.

A sigh rose through her body as she turned out the light and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her room was different: mysterious with the subtle change in furniture. She watched the patterns the streetlight made on the wall as it filtered in through the blinds. Horizontal bars.

He didn't come. --->