The Mare

Ginger

I tucked her in like she was still a little girl and then walked around straightening the house and whispering, “Mistake, mistake, mistake.” I poured myself a large glass of water, slowly drank it, then brushed my teeth. I got into bed. My heart raced; my brain filled with clashing words and silent, hectic music. Yes, the drink was a mistake, but a healing one. Our beautiful time in the car; a moment of forgiveness; a way to the in-between place. The drink helped me to get there.

I sat up. The in-between place. It was my term for the tenderness that sometimes happened between me and Michael, usually when we were trying to get out the door in the morning in time for work; a time when our exhausted eyes would acknowledge the stupidity and nastiness of the night before, but would still say wordlessly, “It was not really that. No. It only seemed like that. Really, it was this.”

I got up and drank some more water, leaned over the sink absorbing it, then made myself throw it up.