Pick up Thai food takeout after work, from a waitress too busy to meet your eye. Carry the styrofoam box to your car like a newborn, warm and fragile. Drive home, a protective hand on the bottle of Savignon Blanc in the passenger seat. Blast Nirvana’s “All Apologies” on 99.9 FM, a station you never listen to.
Pull into the driveway, blinking twice to wet bloodshot eyes. Pick your reddened cuticle, click the garage door opener. Carry the wine, the Thai food, your work bag, and a vase of cut daisies you bought to cheer yourself up into your bedroom. Put the flowers and the wine bottle on the end table and the takeout on your floor.
Put on your favorite pajamas, taking your time to pick out the right pair of fuzzy socks. Untie hair and sift through it with your fingers, yanking on the knots. Send three emoji hearts, each to separate concerned friends. Join the noodles on rug, untie bag, open box and dig in. Open laptop and go to Netflix. Click on something, anything, mindful of any romance described in the description. Open bottle of wine, pour a hefty glass. Sip, wait, repeat.
