Feminine Revenge [Ongoing]

Chapter Eight: Long Days and Longer Nights

I look at the bed and run my hands through my hair. Damn. This was as hard as I thought it would be. I had just walked into the house moments ago, dumped my bag in the foyer, and expected Emerson to appear out of nowhere and scold me for throwing my stuff around. When that hadn't happened, I said, 'I'm home' and only after there was no reply from that I remembered why the place was empty.

The little place feels cavernous without him. There is barely any room for me to pace but the fact that I can without getting smacked on the back of my head makes it feel empty. I can do what I wish, and despite the fact that I can almost hear and feel him scolding, I don't actually hear a thing.

Then I cook and eat what I can, pretending everything was fine knowing full well that I cooked enough for two and the second mouth isn't here to feed. I end up stuffed full not enjoy it because he didn't steal my food with a cheeky grin.

I flop into bed, hand over my eyes, and curse myself for being a love-sick idiot. This is so not the way to go about this. He's an adult. I'm an adult too. We have things to do and jobs to work. This is life. I'll allow myself to miss him but nothing beyond that. I laugh silently, knowing that he would call me silly for being sappy and then whack me on the back of my head for moping.

* * *

It had only been a day and this time when I walked into the place I knew he wouldn't be here. Perhaps it was because of that as to why I cleaned up my messes as I went. I cleaned up the odd way he would. I never understood it, but I know how he does it and I emulate that down to the dot. I look back at my work, hands on my hips, pleased with my work. Maybe there was something to it. Keeping everything clean was satisfying and left everything nice. Still, I know I'll revert back to my messy ways once he comes back, much to his annoyance.

I can imagine him, you know? He walks in that door and smiles, pleased at how I've kept the place dusted, swept, and everything in the shelves like it belongs. When I come home the next afternoon, however, and dump my stuff on the group it'll tick him off just a little bit more because he now knows I'm capable of keeping everything just that little bit cleaner than I normally do. In fact, as clean as he does.

I don't know why I live for pushing his buttons. Senseless and ticks him off. A back and forth, push and pull. Yes, I would back off immediately when he has a bad day or he's just not feeling it. Not saying that I was cruel. Neither was he, and he did the same damn thing in his own way. Never cooking, and when cave and cook for us both he wrinkles his nose and declares he has no idea what he wants to eat. Whatever I cook though, it'll be wrong.

I discovered (both yesterday and today) that this debate every evening was something I now sorely missed too. I realized that when I stood in front of the stove and tried to think about what I should cook. I was torn between three things yesterday and the same happened today. Well not three, as I had cooked one of those three yesterday and resolved to cook the remaining two today and tomorrow.

* * *

I ended up staying awake nearly all night. In my defence I wasn't tired, and the bed wasn't at all inviting. Harder than I liked it and the pillow was too flat. That's all. Only trouble with that logic is now I'm tired as all hell and have no one to blame it on except myself. Perhaps a more rigorous sleep schedule would be preferable to prevent this issue in the future. Except there is no one around except me to enforce this ideal.

I roll out of bed, far later than I normally would and decide not to even bother with making myself fully presentable. Getting dressed was good enough for me and it should be good enough for anyone I know whom I run into today.