#uncoffeed...

My love is like sand that clings to my feet when I walk on the beach: it's cold, yet giving, conforming to my shape and then falling away, leaving irritating particles that must be brushed aside when dry. Beginnings of a thousand novels, like case files of long-forgotten crimes never to be solved, clutter my shelves and our computer. I keep them buried, but at hand; perhaps one day something will spark and all will become clear. I call the shelves mine, because my husband has no use for them. They hold things waiting for me, not us. I tell him how important it is to always have a "me" in my culture. Mine, not his - his, not mine. What is his? Where is ours? The cats are ours. He tells me his mother doesn't think we should live with cats. "I think she wants to be the woman of this house," he says, his eyes twinkling while his face remains placid. He looks at me from an angle, waiting for response. "Of course she does," I reply. You le...

...well, when that happens, you have to try. So I went in and had a few conversations over Bushmill's. Turns out he was right - these people were unshenanigable. ...so after leaving the pool hall wearing the t-shirt I was given and a  name tag reading HELLO I'M Gonna Shank You , I went to my favorite local Chinese joint for Cashew Chicken, white meat. I haven't been there since the night I talked culture and politics with the owner, Yen, whilst I drank tequila. That night I also rode my bike into a bush because I couldn't stop laughing. Neither I nor the bush were hurt . Tonight I brought in my book  to prep for t omorrow's book club discussion while I ate. Yen recognised me, and was possibly overly polite and professional, making me wonder if he would have preferred to have another excellent conversation. "It's good you have a book," he smiled. "Everybody reads their phones." It didn't seem right to ask him to sit with me in th...