how many days

Days 1-10: No idea. Did I eat? Did I sleep? All I know is that I cried. On the plane, in the car, on the train. In California, in New York, in DC. Wept. Sobbed. Cried.

Day 11: Try to drown my sorrows. Unfortunately, I succeed. Dinner with V, at a divey Vietnamese joint in Chinatown. Cheap and good. A tall glass of bad white wine. Later, at a crowded dance club on the LES, I smile at a happy looking Asian guy. When he stands up, I am 3 inches taller than him, in my very tall heels. He is a physical therapist. As we talk, he puts his hand on the small of my back, and I squirm away, already irritated.

He continues smilingly, "Oh, you live right by my campus. We should hang out."

I ask, critically, "How old are you?"

"31!"

"I don't believe you."

He shows me his driver's license. He's telling the truth. I shrug.

He persists, "Well, can I at least have your number?"

"Maybe," I say, and turn away.

Later I talk to a tall, preppy white guy in a blazer ("I know her husband from rowing crew..."), and when he later wanders off without saying good-bye, I buy myself another scotch.

Old habits die hard.

On the way home, my friends want to go to the all-night donut place, where we went with Clerk in April. I have the cabbie drop me off at home. Slingbacks in hand, I run up the dirty stairwell to my apartment and pass out on my bed.

Later, the combination of scotch, vodka, white wine, and pho result in a very unhappy ending to a very unhappy night.

Day 12: I fall asleep without alcohol or pills, but I wake up. 5:30. 6:30. 7:30. Each time, I wake up scared and frozen and alone. And I think. About Ben, about me, about us. About how good it was, even when it wasn't.

Sometimes, I half-sleep until dawn. Sometimes I just lie there. I can't sleep.

Then, when the tears come, I can.