Clocks Ticking: an original short by me

“Boom, Bam, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man.”
I twirl in front of the mirror, my black lacy skirt flying out around my knees, teasing, tempting, promising a maybe more.
The black material matching the black sky, hiding the real me and my insecurities. Just like the song. And the vodka tonic in my right hand. More vodka. Less tonic. OK, no tonic. Just pure, clear Skye Vanilla. My new favorite.
I have to go.
I want to go.
I want to go, go, go.
Lie, lie, lie, LIES.
All of it.
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to do anything but sluice my way back to my empty room and hide under the down comforter that no longer comforts but reminds me that one is the loneliest number.
My iPod alarm beeps, laughing at me with its shrill warning. Ten minutes.
What am I doing?
I look in the mirror a little too closely. Something I no longer allow myself to do because the lines around my eyes remind me that 40-something was no time to start dating again.
Damn him for leaving me alone. Do not cry, do not cry, do not…
My drink sloshes on my hand, relieving the reverie of do not’s, and I set it on the dresser, right where the picture, our picture, used to rest.
Maybe one day I’ll dig it out from the bottom of the drawer I’d relegated happier times to.
Or maybe not.
I step back from the mirror, find a shadowy place that will let my refection lie.
Let me lie.
I want to go. I have to go. I will go.
The mantra bangs away in my brain as I search for my left shoe. High heels. New. Ridiculously expensive. Mall therapy that didn’t really work. When I’d bought them, I’d thought of warm, fuzzy, exciting, explosive love.
There. I stick my foot under the bed and drag the red leather out with my toes. Then slide my newly painted toenails in, resting the arch of my foot, encasing the heel. The hot pink nails peep out, shiny like the shoes. Both lying, like the dress.
I rub the empty place where my ring used to be and take a deep breath.
He was my everything. My always. He would’ve hated the shoes.
I laugh then. Really laugh. And wonder if maybe I am a little crazy now.
I love the shoes. Love them in a warm, fuzzy, explosive way. Which was the only warm, fuzzy, explosive love left for me.
I understand that. Even as I’d said yes, I’d understood.
A knock. A knock. A knock, knock, knock.
It’s time.
I take a deep breath and rub my hand over the honest liar, my mirror, then grab my purse and head for the door.
I have to go. I want to go. I will go.
Go, go, go.

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