An Old Journal Entry

It's nice that I can feel my toes again. Comforting, almost. I'm all about seasonal metaphors today. The table I am sitting at has more women at it than I'm used to. But that's alright. I'm learning: slowly. Perhaps I'll find out some tactics. About tact in general. I have very little of it, as seen through my engagements last night. I'm an Estelle from Big Brother. Or perhaps, a Bradley.

I cornered him, last night.
I put him on a pedestal.
I said "You listen here, I'm the bad guy."
And then I ripped him off like a bandaid. He seemed to take it well, you know. They always said that hobbits are adaptable. But it was quiet. The unatural quiet. There was no off-putting winter howl, an absence of crunching autumn, and spring's usual chirp was completely out of the question. It was the dead heat of midday summer. The roads are abandoned and everyone is trying to lock themselves in air-conditioned safe rooms. The room was hot, and heavy, and dead quiet.

So when he downed his whiskey and placed it on the table, in one swift movement, the noise rang in my ears. I jumped a little. I surveyed all the exits. One was plausible. I retreated to the kitchens comforts, of tea and less sweat under pressure. Rather, just sweat of unregulated room temperatures. The tension didn't pass. I don't know how long it will take to do so. I don't know if it will.

It will. It will. It will.
Threes are magic like that.


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Sometimes you speak a little too soon.