Interlude – Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

The rest of the day was good. I need to think of another word for good.

I dragged myself out of the familiar unknown and dolled myself up, to the nines. I’ve often wondered about the etymology of that phrase. I think I’d like to be an etymologist. Not an entomologist: they study spiders and I much prefer words. Words can’t bite you, although words have often been known to crawl under your skin and hatch venomous, parasitic viruses into your weakened veins, numbing the regular flow of reality to your brain.

We went for a drink. I had a Bombay Sapphire, with lime. Then dinner. I had a starter and sides and dessert. I’m not letting myself think about how tight my dress was. I’ve set my alarm. I’ll try run in the morning. Or the gym. Don’t think about it. Thighs the size of oak trees. DON’T!

Such a lovely night. Two Hendrick’s with elderflower tonic and cucumber. I laughed. Not fake laughter, actual loud laughter. I laugh like My Lady laughs: the kind of dirty laugh that when it escapes your larynx (where does a laugh come from?) you cover your mouth in surprise at how filthy and attention grabbing it is.

I’m here and I’m eating and drinking and talking and being.

That dessert was worth hanging on in there.

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