866 words (on the novel-in-progress The Decadents) Cat felt an ache rise into her chest, expanding out against her ribs. She palmed through the journal and noted the missing pages, whole chunks of them ripped out. Other sections were written in some kind of code. The journal seemed defensive and self-conscious, as if its owner had no faith in boundaries, no sense that they would not be violated. Had she been wrong? After all, here was Cat violating them. The ache opened into a low, heavy feeling that reached up into her throat. She wanted to curl up. She wanted to disappear. It was sadness, she realized, edged with something darker: a sense of shame and mortification that made her want to crawl inside herself and escape her skin at the same time. Cat shut the journal, and the feeling abated somewhat, as if sucked back into the pages: genie in the lamp. She became aware of the silence in the house. The shadows. Aimee was away in Ojai leading a yoga retreat. Usually Cat was okay being alone – craved it, even – but this particular solitude was squeezing her heart as if juicing a lemon. She found herself looking for her cell phone, tapping in Gabe’s number. When she got his voice mail, she hung up and tried again. He answered. Cat had to take a moment, as if to locate the words deep inside her. “Hi,” she said. “This is a booty call.” Gabe said immediately, “Your place or mine?”
Posted on: Sun, 29 Sep 2013 19:14:13 +0000
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