Jeff Winkle
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I had chosen the most obnoxious alarm tone I could find and I had purposely left my phone on the far end of the room to force my sorry ass out of bed and into my running clothes at 5:30am, but all that seems to do is infuse my day with an off-centeredness that lasts well past my run. It works, but damn. As I threw on the nylon jacket and pants (it was March and still blustery and petulant outside), I didn’t have to squint back at the other side of the bed to know that it was still empty. Two days now. Not that this was an altogether rare thing—Jenna had left in a huff before, starting a fairly predictable cycle in our relationship: small nuisance leads to volcanic blowup leads to increasingly larger and heavier things being thrown about, a number of doors slam, the last of which she goes through, off to mom for a day or two, someone texts (usually her), she comes back and things are ok again for a bit. This is love, I guess, in the way it was always modeled for both of us in our respective shitty childhoods.
By Jeff Winkle4 years ago in Horror
