Nutella dipped strawberries are the best part of my work day and I daydream of the time I get to sit down and slice my organic fruit and slather European chocolate all over the perfect ruby slivers. If I wasn't at work, I would have a glass of Prosecco on a frosted flute and read the latest book I've borrowed from the library (a non-negotiable in my life) and dream and dream...
I long for a singular life--where my days and hours are free to roam upon each nook and cranny of time's landscape. But my planning book is filled with scribbles and my mental calendar crammed with lunches with my boyfriend, dinners with my boyfriend and all the menial, physical hours I work at my place of employment and in between I crave the noise of a page turning in my book, the loudness of the chaos of my own thoughts and just watch the steady dismantling of my old life.
Until recently I lived in the family home until I could no longer hold the title of family caregiver. In my culture that title is reserved for the unmarried women of the household with no prospects in sight. I've put my own schooling and career on hold to care for my mom who was afflicted with cancer and my teenage sister who was pregnant right after her high school graduation. I was given the job of the good child who was to stay at home and keep the good family name from tarnishing and giving in to rust. Until recently, of course.
I've made peace with becoming a very young spinster and living the spinster's life: singular dinners, afternoons at the playground with my nephew and other people's children and if I'm able to sneak away--a cafe mocha bianco and a crisp copy of New York Times at a good friend's coffee bar. But a man came along, of course, and he blowtorched his way into my solitude. He was the King of the Wands all the psychics have been telling me to look out for--the tarot card that warms and burns all at once.
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