After a Day or Two

I begin to bristle. It shows on my face. Around my nipples. Above my pubic mound. On my legs, more slowly, but yes. There, too. I don’t shave my underarms, but I do trim the hair, so it gets longer. Same with my bush. I’m on the older side of the hill of life now, so my ears, nose, and eyebrow hair gets a little nuts, after a day or two. My makeup has thoroughly worn off, unless I’ve been reapplying it. And I look older than my age. To me. Other people don’t seem to think so. I guess it’s all relative, aging. Or the perception of aging, anyway.

After a day or two, I start to rethink the whole thing. I look out the windows and see the world out there. Is there anything out there? Oh my yes. So many things out there, waiting for you, Tee. But none of it is really worth the effort.

You may worry about that, think I’m depressed.

I’m not depressed, I say. I’ve been underground. This isn’t that. This is something like wisdom. Like a waking up, a knowing that all the shit people are getting up to out there is either a waste of effort or worse, the laying of frameworks for catastrophe.

You might see what I am getting at, you may not. You might pity me, or feel sorry for me. You might want to help in some way. Or, you might be angry with me with saying this. Writing this. Whatever.

“Look,” I say out loud, “whatever you’re up to is fine. You do you, babe. I’m doing me. And this is me, after a day or two.”

I scan you for a response. Not telepathically, not with fancy eyes. Just in an ordinary way.

“You said you wanted to know me,” I say. You know, if you did. If not, I just take a sip of coffee.