She comes home and is greeted by the enthusiastic tail-wagging of her dog, and she reaches down to pet his head, and when she stops, he nudges her hand with his cold, wet nose as if to say, “you’re not finished yet, woman!” so she scratches behind his ears to appease the wicked beast.
She goes into her room and kicks off her beaten and worn-out Converse sneakers and shimmies out of her work scrubs into something more comfortable, which is silly, because there really isn’t anything more comfortable than scrubs. Anyway, she finds an old t-shirt and slips on her jeans and makes her way into her roommate’s room to let his own dog outside with hers.
They tear around the backyard, pausing to bark ar squirrels and to bite at each other, and she sits on a patio chair and lights up a cigarette, simultaneously enjoying the burst of nicotine and hating that she is smoking. She needs to quit. She’s trying…and failing, but she IS trying.
The dogs settle down for a rare moment and she looks around the backyard at the late afternoon sun sparkling through the leaves of the trees and the garish orange house across the alley. The house bugs her, simply because it has all white window frames save one that is black. She wishes the owner would either paint it white like its brothers, or the rest black, because then the house would look like a jack-o-lantern.
She puffs away, letting time pass with the smoke that dissolves into the air around her.
Usually, her thoughts wander, as they are often prone to do. Work, money–or lack thereof–him, writing, him some more, then she gets distracted by checking social networking sites, then back to him. It’s a vicious cycle.
The “him” she thinks of is two men, actually. One; the ex. Don’t worry–the thoughts are not pleasant. Mainly it’s wishing she had the extra cash to pay for the divorce, and why he’s being such a poor son/brother to his family and why he is punishing them for his mistakes. He was never good at accepting help, and she’s disgusted that at thirty years old, he hasn’t learned yet. But, he’s not her problem any longer, yet she still feels responsible for him. She hates that. A lot.
The other him makes the previous him pale in comparison. In fact, the only similarities they possess are that they are both male. She likes that. A lot.
She gets ripped from her daydream by sounds of vicious growling and realizes she’s turning into Michael Vick and letting the dogs fight, so she grabs her roommate’s dog and takes her inside, leaving her own dog to daydream his own dreams of finally catching that squirrel.
The rest of her night is uneventful, as it usually is. She’s home alone and is enjoying the solitude. It gives her time to think uninterrupted.
And like the smoke disapating into the air, so does her night. It’s 11 p.m. and time for bed.
She bids you all a fond good night and pleasant dreams*.
*also, this was “written” via hunt-and-peck style typing via an iPad and her fingers are tired.
Shut up. Good night again.