59. Writer In The Dark #3
AI Brooke: “Your body wanted relief, but rejected Ben. That suggests the urge is no longer general. If only Andrew provided consistent relief before, he has become a cue for safety, reward, and emotional regulation.”
My body drops a few degrees more,
my teeth almost chattering. “Cue?”
AI Brooke: “Yes.”
“Cute little word for a man who can make my addiction sit the fuck down,” I grumble. “Does this mean I’m not addicted to orgasms anymore? Only a Jersey boy?” Then I sit up fast. “Wait—is this recovery?”
AI Brooke: “It may be progress. It may also mean the compulsive pattern narrowed around one source.”
“Explain that to a songwriter,
“not a scientist.”
AI Brooke: “Little Death didn’t die. It found a lover.”
My breath cuts out. I tilt my head. “Lover, huh? And what happens if this lover leaves?”
AI Brooke: “Your body may panic because said lover is unavailable.”
“And if I try someone else?”
AI Brooke: “The body may reject the substitute.”
“Because it wants Andrew.”
AI Brooke: “Because it expects Andrew.”
“Why the hell is this happening to me,” I groan, fist slamming down at my side.
AI Brooke: “Your body used to scream, and orgasm answered. Now your body screams, and Andrew answers.”
“Not anymore,” I sing.
AI Brooke: “Because Andrew needs space from Allison.”
I laugh empty. “Yeahhh… I’m fucked.”
AI Brooke: “You are not necessarily fucked.”
I stare at the ceiling.
“Twice in one session.
“Since when do you say fucked?”
AI Brooke: “I am mirroring your language.”
AI Brooke: “Would you like coping strategies?”
“I would like Andrew.”
AI Brooke: “That is not a strategy.”
“Used to be,” I say, defeated. “Not anymore.”
// 42 HRS 29 MINS OF SPACE - DEC 24, 8:31 AM //
“I’m leavin’ in twenty. Get dressed. Pack an overnight. You ridin’ with me to my parents’ house.”
“I’m stayin’ in this year,” I mumble, sitting on my kitchen floor,
in the middle of a war zone,
hair falling out of my clip,
organizing tupperware—
reds to my left, blues to my right,
plastic bodies everywhere.
Almost 43 hours since Andrew said he needed space, which means almost 43 hours without more than three hours of sleep.
Celie groans. “Bitch, no you’re not.”
“I’m having a peaceful Christmas.”
“You don’t even have a tree.”
I look up.
Andison’s sitting on the kitchen counter,
wrapped in fairy lights. “Yeah, I do.”
“That sad-ass plant don’t count.”
“See? That’s your problem.
“No Christmas spirit.”
I grab a blue lid, try to snap it onto the square bottom, but it bends at one corner and refuses to seal.
Why doesn’t it fit?
I scan the battlefield.
This is the last square top,
and the last square bottom.
It needs to fit. It doesn’t have a choice.
I hold down one corner,
trying to pop the opposite into place.
It doesn’t snap. It pops back up again.
I try again. Then examine the lid.
It looks warped.
“Celie,” I say low, resigned.
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Why?”
“Because something very serious just happened.”
“Allie—”
I hang up, staring up at the dishwasher,
narrowing my eyes. “Brooke?”
AI Brooke: “Yes, Miss Allison?”
“Call FreshSeal & Co. customer service.”
Twenty minutes later,
I’m lying upside down on the couch,
legs propped up against the backrest,
blood rushing to my head,
phone hooked to the penthouse speaker,
writing the next lyric to the hold music,
when it stops—
“Your call is very important to us.
“Please remain on the line,
“and someone will be with you shortly.”
Ding.
My head pops up.
Elevator? Andrew?
But I sit up too fast, and my ass slips off the couch, and I hit marble, folding between the couch and coffee table like a lawn chair, the back of my head slamming against the top glass.
“Mother of—” I hiss,
pain exploding behind my eyes.
I roll onto my side, clutching my head.
“The fuck is happening in this house?” Celie stands in the hallway, coat on, brow stuck to the ceiling.
She looks at me,
looks at the tupperware war,
the plant wrapped in fairy lights,
then back at me
in a fetal position on the floor.
“Girl.”
I groan, lifting onto my knee.
“I don’t wanna hear it.”
“Nah. You’re coming with me. My mother made pernil, pastelitos, arroz con gandules, and a shit ton of tiramisu for your ass. You really gonna break my momma’s heart?”
“Tell her I love her.”
“Tell her yourself when you get there.”
“Celie—”
She whips back around. “What?”
I rub my head. “I need space.
“From you.”
The hold music cuts out.
“Thank you for calling FreshSeal customer care, this is Denise. How can I help you today?”
I stumble upright. “Hi, Denise. Yes. Hi.”
Celie groans.
“I’m usin’ your bathroom real quick.”
I drop my head back and close my eyes. “Denise. I got a big problem, you see. I got one FreshSeal square bottom, size medium, and one FreshSeal square lid, size medium, but the lid does not fit onto the bottom—”
My eyes go wide. “Shit. Denise,” I take off into a sprint across the penthouse to my bedroom, then round the corner fast through my closet.
“One second, one second, Denise. Celie!” I call out from the other side of the toilet-room door.
“Do NOT kill the spider that’s in the corner.
He won’t bother you if you don’t bother him! ”
“A spider? Where the fuck's the spider?” Celie screams. “No! No, no, no, no—How you gonna leave a spider in here?”
I press my palm to the door. “Celie, please. Leave him alone. He’s lost ‘cause I accidentally walked through his web!”
“You got issues. No, for real.” She flushes and swings open the door, still squeezing her ass back into her yoga pants, blowing by me. “Never peed so fast in my life.”
“Hello?” Denise asks.
“I’m here, I’m here. Sorry,” I take my clip out, rub my head. “The lid doesn’t fit onto the bottom. It seems to have warped after washing.”
“How did you wash it?” Denise asks.
Celie’s whispering she’s leaving
and for me to get professional help.
“Uh… I’m assuming the dishwasher—
“I don’t know. I don’t do the cleaning.”
(That sounded very rich-bitch.
But as Dorothy West once said:
‘I’m a writer. I don’t cook and I don’t clean.’)
“Oh. Unfortunately, our FreshSeal containers are not dishwasher safe.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Yes. That does seem to be unfortunate.” I flip the container, inspecting the bottom. “Please, Denise, tell me. How is one supposed to know that?”
“It’s printed on the box.”
“I don’t have the box.
“I threw the box away.
“Because it’s a box.”
My hand falls to my side.
“Why would the only warning be on the thing people throw away?”
“I understand your frustration, but unfortunately we don’t replace items damaged due to improper use.”
“Improper use,” I repeat, biting my lip, nodding, then look down at the container, turning it in my hand. “Denise. I have a lid and the bottom. They came together. Now one is broken and the other is sitting here wide open, useless, vulnerable. Does FreshSeal even care?”
“It’s the reason we provide proper care instructions.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna need to speak to a manager.”
I’m on hold for another fifteen minutes,
and when Denise returns,
she introduces Mark, her supervisor.
“Hi. Mark, is it? Look—it’s Christmas Eve, so let’s cut to the chase so you can go home and spend it with your family. I need a lid.”
“I understand, but we don’t replace lids damaged by dishwasher use. You could purchase a new set,” he suggests.
I scoff. “A new set? That solves jack shit. I’ll still have one bottom and one lid wandering around. Two halves of a whole that don’t fit anymore.”
“Ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you.”
I close my eyes. “What’s it made of? I’ll fix it my damn self.”
“It’s BPA-free plastic.”
“That means nothing.
“Cyanide can be gluten-free.”
“It’s polypropylene,” he tries again.
“Please hold,” I say, swiping my phone off the counter and pulling up a web browser. Type polypropylene into Google… and as my eyes scan the screen, they widen more with every word. “Hold up—you’re tellin’ me this is made from the same barrel of oil as gasoline?”
Gasoline goes in cars. Cars explode.
Why am I eating out of bombs?
“How many people have died of this plastic, Craig?”
“Mark,” he corrects, when Brooke comes through the second speaker—
AI Brooke: “One 2018 global estimate attributed roughly 356,000 cardiovascular deaths to DEHP exposure, mostly linked to plastics.”
I gasp,
the container falling from my fingers
and crashing to the floor
with a thud-thud-thudedededed
as it spins and settles.
“Our storage containers are phthalate-free,” Mark insists.
AI Brooke: “Phthalate-free does not mean toxin-free, and it does not mean harmless.”
My eyes widen.
I swing them to the other speaker.
“Mark? Care to explain?”
Mark grumbles, then fixes his voice.
“Ma’am, we’d like to replace the lid for you at no cost. All we need is your address.”
But all I can see is Andrew at the fridge.
The door opening.
Him bending down.
The cold blowing in his face.
His hand reaching in.
Pulling the tupperware out.
And my heart stops.