Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Sloane looks at me with a combination of sympathy and
hope. “Does this mean you’re working on a new piece?”
Avoiding her searching eyes, I pick at my salad. “I don’t
want to jinx it by talking about it.”
More like I don’t want to make up a lie, but if I tell her that
I’m still not painting but I somehow ordered myself art
supplies without remembering I did, she’ll drive me straight
from lunch to a therapist’s office.
Maybe Diane Myers was right: I’m living in a bubble. A
big fuzzy bubble of denial that’s disconnected me from the
world. I’m slowly but surely losing touch with real life.
Sloane says, “Oh, babe, I’m so glad! This is great forward
progress!”
When I glance up, she’s beaming at me. Now I feel like an
asshole. I’ll have to slap some paint on an empty canvas when
I get home just so I’m not consumed by guilt.
“And you did so well at the consignment shop, too. Not a
tear in sight. I’m very proud.”
“Does this mean I can order another glass of wine?”
“You’re a big girl. You can do whatever you want.”
“Good, because it’s still The Day That Will Not Be
Mentioned, and I’m hoping to be blacked out by four o’clock.”
The time I was supposed to be walking down the aisle on
this date five years ago.
Thank god it’s a Saturday, or I’d have a lot of explaining to
do when I toppled over reeking of booze in the middle of
teaching class.
Sloane is distracted from whatever disapproving statement
she was about to say by her cell phone chirping. A text has
come through.
She digs her phone out of her bag, looks at it, and grins.
“Oh, yeah, big boy.”
Then she looks up at me, and her face falls. She shakes her
head and starts to type. “I’ll tell him we need to reschedule.”