avec la petite cuiller

I feel awful. I meant to buy alcohol on the way home, because I knew this was coming. Instead, I bought a bus pass and hurried back to the flat, where I spent several minutes on the edge of the bed, head between my knees, fighting the urge to vomit, wanting to cry and somehow unable to.

Then I did some dusting and made small talk over dinner.

When Emma left for yoga, she borrowed my keys, and now there's no one to ask for a glass of wine and no way to buy beer without locking myself out. I still want to cry and still can't; I could stage cry, but it would be staged. I still want to vomit, but more than that want not to vomit. You could say I have reached an impasse.

Lately, people have been doing that thing where they find out how impoverished and unsettled I still am (no surprise, given how short a time I've been here) and are alarmed and scandalized and insist that I must buy myself such-and-such and take care of myself in such-and-such a way, and I have to smile and say "yes, that seems nice" when it's really clear that yes, of course I would be doing those things if I possibly could - if it didn't take time, and searching, and saving up; if I could move buildings and governments; if.

I miss you. I've bought afternoon coffees each day this week - a great luxury, and a small consolation.