What a strange day. I woke at 6:30 this morning, not at all refreshed, sore and stiff, a bitter taste in my mouth. I made coffee, wrote for an hour, drove to work, the windows down, cool air rushing in, another weekend alone, another restless night.
By eleven I felt real despair, the bitterness overwhelming, everything silent and empty, the clouds outside the window as overcast as my future. By three I was humming again, pressing against the accelerator, spinning along Sepulveda, palm trees, storefronts flashing by, my voice in tandem with the radio, Don't know what you came here for. It's almost that I wish we hadn't met at all.
I lost myself for a couple of hours in supervision at the clinic. Could hear my phone vibrating in my bag, could sense the emails waiting, arriving. Filed progress notes, saw a client, drove home, hugging the curves alongside the LAX tarmac, planes rushing, roaring overhead and down.
It was a long day, draining and enervating, but still I needed something more, my blood at a simmer, my emotions still riding high. I put on my headphones, my sneakers, and walked out to the beach. I set off running along the empty boardwalk, shadows long between the streetlamps, Bowie, The Smiths, Boston, The Cars, drowning out the sound of my footsteps, the catcalls from drug dealers on the basketball court.
I don't usually run at night. There was something thrilling about it, something dangerous and daring, like I have something to prove. That I'm that kind of girl, like the one in the movies, the wounded but tough girl, Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs, the young single woman who comes home to two cats at 9 at night and then runs along a seedy ocean boardwalk, returns home to shower, breaks a glass in the sink, pours a glass of wine.
I stood on a grassy crest when I was done, the ocean like a giant still lake spreading out before me, my hand on my hip, pulse thrumming against the bone.