After my morning shower he comes into the bathroom. Grabbing. Pressing against me. Every single day I say stop, don’t do that, I don’t want that. He doesn’t relent until I yell. And I think “soon.”
It’s time to leave work and catch myself wondering what I can do to avoid going home, where could I go, what somewhat valid reason can I find to avoid him. As I have been doing for so long I stopped noticing. And I think “soon.”
I walk into the apartment, clothes strewn on the furniture, kitchen a mess, he is slumped in his recliner. Drunk. Stoned. Passed out. I stop and wait for movement, noise, a sign of life. I dont want to leave him dead on the floor as his mother did his dad, and I have laundry to do. And I think “soon.”
The childishness, the mood swings, the selfishness; the frustration, the discomfort, the defeat. Soon. Soon. Soon.
I will get there, I’m sure of it now. Six years are over. I will be free.
The relief I feel makes me sad. But soon it will be a memory. That makes me feel happy again. Soon. I. Will. Be. Free. And alone and poor and bored. But free.