Or, if I was in the mood, watching something classy on TV, like Downton Abbey. And I’d serve my meal on gorgeous china, treating myself like a princess (since there was no one else to do it).Īfter, I’d sip some fancy herbal tea, tucked up in my cuddle chair (candles still burning) reading Dostoyevsky. There would be candles burning, of course. Be one of those women who concocted delicious meals (even if they were only for me), doing this sipping wine in my fabulous kitchen while listening to Beethoven or something. Practically daily I thought I’d change in a variety of ways. I just didn’t do it frequently because I hated to shop for food, and anyway, cooking for one always reminded me I was just that. I did it only when absolutely necessary, which was infrequently considering the number of options available for food in my neighborhood. This was because I thought grocery shopping was akin to torture. I had no food at home except for a bin of wilting baby spinach and some shredded carrots. I pushed the button to start my car, carefully looked in all mirrors and checked my blind spots, reversed out, and headed home. It wouldn’t do for me to escape him inside only for him to see me outside in my car, freaked out so bad I was shaking. It struck me on that thought that he’d said his order was to go. I’d hoped he’d find his way to happiness.
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