I come home at 8 after work. I work well after half past 5, cigarette smoke slithering in the office and feet up on the chair. Undistracted and mesmerized. The music is not channelized into my ears through headphones, but the loudspeaker allows it its course as it amiably contours the corners of silence. I change my screensaver.
I let myself in. Shoes by the door, bag on the floor. A dinner of sliced cheese and chocolate milk. It doesn’t matter to me that it doesn’t go. It’s never not enough. There’s a mart a minute away. Satisfied. No unknown expectations.
The house is clean. There are no obligations to take care of anything. No dishes used, no dishes to wash, no dishes to own, lesser money spent. My own time. I have always loved it from a distance. The flings with it were few and far between. But I always come back. To be alone is to be brave and expose yourself to a plethora of choices.
Coffee with one of them. Don my mitts and armed with Ipod; feel the rush of the breeze on my face at the beach where I like to walk. Try out everything in my wardrobe. Have a drink. Dance wildly to loud music in front of the mirror. Read a book. Go shopping not knowing what I need to buy. Go horse riding twice a week. Cook something once a week. Sketch. Rewrite my ambitions. Paint my nails. Explore the virtual world. Satisfied. No unknown expectations.
I decide to put in a movie in another language after rummaging through a pile of what nobody else besides me likes to watch. Uninterrupted. I feel sleepy, one of those slumbers you fall into with your lips curled into a half smile.
I hear the front gate. I shrivel inside and hold my breath. No knock on the door, yes, on my own again.