failure

It has been a failure kind of day, honey, and I'm in no mood for this, 'kay? I just want to put my stuff down, get a drink, and sit on the patio, 'kay. I don't want to hear about it. I may be in a better mood later, but not now. So don't say it.

I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to not talk about it in that overwhelming silence of yours. I just want to be alone. I don't want the newspaper, I don't want a pilllow for my back, and I don't want you hovering.

I don't want you to hang up my coat, and I don't want you making those little mushroom things, and I don't want you pushing this. I want to sit and be quiet and not have to think about anyone or anything.

She always does this to me. She comes home, and ensconses herself into a room or the balcony and can not bear me to be around her.

She'll sit out there for hours, drinking, appear occasionally for a refill of the pitcher, scowl at me, and leave again. she won't say anything more to me until at least 10:00 where she'll saunter in and sit down like nothing has happened.

I am not to say a word. God Forbid, I mention it. It's as if I've committed the world's most heinous sin by mentioning the fact she's hides herself like a monk, and I am so non grata that my very presence grates and I should just cease to exist because of a failure day. Well, what the hell does that make me? A raving success? No-huh-ooooo. It makes me a failure, that's what it makes me.

This Vignette was a detail in a waking dream about encyclopaedias.