I don’t always skip out of the house with my goodie stash and reveling in my productivity. There are nights I bolt out the front door without a purse much less a cheddar cheese canister. In the most efficient set of movements I stuff my wallet and cell phone in my pants or coat pocket, swipe the first set of keys I find and shaking, heart pounding, mouth like drywall I walk out the front door and run to the car.
Once inside, I lock the car doors in case the testosterone, dense and ornery, oozes out into the deck, towards the driveway threatening to smother me like The Blob.
I drive away, hands clutching the steering wheel, and my eyes darting from the road to the rearview mirror. Once down the road, I stop. At times, in the still of the night, I cry in utter frustration or shriek in anger, mixed with regret and sadness. This pity party is all mine.
I wipe my face and head downtown without a clue or plan. I buy a ticket for whatever movie I haven’t seen whether it has already started or not. I don’t buy popcorn, root beer, or Milk Duds, instead I march straight into the theater, find a seat, and burrow.
Some times, I can’t even remember what movie I saw, other times I’ve cried in the darkness then fallen asleep. I have awoken to the credits rolling. On rare occasions, I indulge in a double feature and stay out until midnight when I can return home and count on a dark house.