Chapter 21 Florence
Tonight, after another day of useless therapy—Let me help you get in touch with your anger, Evelyn said, as though she, with her neatly combed hair, her salaried job, her gold wedding band, could possibly relate to what has me so angry—I can’t sleep.
I press the button next to my bed and ask for sleeping pills.
Evelyn’s voice comes through the speaker: “I can’t offer you mind-altering substances.” She sounds groggy. I’m pleased I woke her up.
“You were so eager to sedate me a couple days ago.”
I release the button before I can hear her response.
I get out of bed, the hardwood cool beneath my bare feet.
I’m wearing a nightgown that stops just above my knees, no sleeves.
I twist my hair into a bun on top of my head, but it falls loose immediately.
When I still lived with my husband, he woke with me when I couldn’t sleep, never angry that I’d disturbed his rest. At least, he never said so.
Could be he was as angry as I am now, he was just better at hiding it.
I grab my guitar and sit cross-legged on the couch in the living room.
You want to know why I’m mad?
Ask my mother, she’ll tell you I was born that way.
Ask my ex, he’ll tell you I’m the reason he went away.
Ask my kid, she’ll tell you I’m crazy,
Ask my talent, it’ll tell you I’m lazy.
Just don’t ask me,
Don’t ask me,
Don’t ask me,
Don’t ask me —
Why?
At the sound of applause, I nearly jump out of my skin. What was I thinking? I know better.
Places like this, someone’s always watching.