#ssmmonthly

You stare down the neat geometric angles of railing descending down the stairwell, not quite registering the sharp cuts. For a moment you debate tossing your phone between the kaleidoscopic angles but it’s not worth it. In the span of a five minute phone call, you are drained and it’s only 10 AM on a Thursday morning. Is it worth trying with them anymore?

A door slams open, three maybe four flights of stairs down pulling you from your thoughts. Right, you still need to finish your workday. Reluctantly you slip the phone back into your pocket. Taking three deep breaths, you return to your desk. 

The rest of the day passes with a heavy knot in your chest and cotton between your ears. Thick emotions from the morning hover close to the surface, like a pot just seconds away from bubbling over. But that is just enough to keep you from making any progress. A quiet battle rages, between the part of you that wants to extend empathy and the part of you that’s had enough, volleying the same old arguments in your head. It’s the world’s worst roller coaster and you just can’t seem to get off it.

As soon as it is a respectable hour to leave the office, you pack your things. Just as you are about to close your laptop, you get pulled into a last minute discussion. The meeting drags on, everyone pontificating about nuances that you just can’t seem to care about right now; it’s not your job to care. You fidget in your chair, as someone drones on. Why did they even need you here? You decide it’s payback for the creaky noises of your standing desk. 

When you finally escape and make it home, the silence of your apartment is welcome. You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes. Exhaustion seeps into your bones. Before you can even make it to your couch, you collapse on to the floor, uncaring of the dull pain as your knees hit the wooden floor. The knot in your chest tightens and the bottled emotions of the day comes spilling out. You hunch over your knees as tears run down your face.

Grief.

Anger.

Disappointment.

All of them bubbling up to each pore, like it might just tear right out of you. All your efforts with your parents feels so futile and you feel like a fool for believing it might get better. 

But now, in this moment there was nothing left to do but cry. 

The shadows in your apartment lengthen as the light of day fades into twilight. Your tears have long since dried up. Your stomach gurgles at you and you are suddenly aware that all you’ve eaten today has been a protein bar and a few handfuls of M&Ms. 

Pasta. 

Yeah pasta sounds good. 

You push yourself off the ground, every muscle and joint displeased with having to budge. Pins and needles travel up your legs as you amble to your kitchen trying to shake them off. 

You bring the water to boil and let the pasta cook as you get a saucepan ready to heat up the tomato sauce. You drop some oil in the pan as you gather the rest of the seasonings. Basil, oregano, and balsamic vinegar. 

You hold the bottle, fingers worrying at the edge of the label. A memory floods you, unbidden. It’s of your mother tossing some nondescript amount of balsamic into the sauce as she tells you it's a good way to add a bit more tang. It was simpler, maybe. Fourteen and just learning to cook from her, free from all the complications of your teen years, and the decisions that you’d made for yourself in your adult life and the pain they’d brought. Your vision blurs with unshed tears. The next moment you are bawling on the floor, clutching the bottle of vinegar to your chest with only the over door for support.

It feels so silly to break down over a bottle of vinegar but the rush of emotions are anything but. It’s the timer for the pasta going off that pulls you out of your spiral. 

The pan is smoking. The oil has burnt off leaving stubborn black marks. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit!” 

You spring into action.

Burners off. Vent fan on.

You take the pan to the sink to cool it off. Thick steam rises as the water hits the pan, hissing and fizzling. You just hope and pray that the smoke alarm doesn’t go off. That would certainly be a cherry on this shit sundae of a day. 

Just as the pan is cooling, you hear a knock on your door. 

“Now what!?” you groan.

Turning off the tap, you leave the pan in the sink to answer the door. Whoever it was, you hoped it’d be quick. You open the door to find Sam greeting you with a brilliant smile and a bouquet of flowers. A grin that quickly fades as he take you in, frazzled in your crumpled work clothes and the smoky apartment behind you.

You had been seeing Sam for a short while now. Brief enough that you weren’t ready to let him see you like this, especially after the day you’ve had. You’re not sure what he’s doing here. He’s too well dressed for a casual drop by. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping into the apartment and pulling you into a brief hug.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you say. “It’s just… been a day and just left the pan on for too long”

“Well these are for you,” he says with a small smile as he offers  you the bouquet with a flourish. “Let’s see if we can’t turn this day around.”

“These are beautiful,” you say, as you take in the collection of roses and peonies in your favorite shades. “I’m glad to see you today but what are you doing here?”

Sam frowns.

“We made plans, remember? The Minutes play and dinner.” 

Oh oh!  In the whirlwind of the day you’d forgotten about your plans for this evening. Going out was the last thing on your mind. Sam stands in front of you in a neatly pressed shirt and a fresh fade, his confusion quickly growing into concern. He brought the play  up at least once a day since he bought the tickets for you both and you are loath to disappoint him.  You set the flowers aside on the counter, resigning yourself 

“Give me a moment to get ready,” you finally say, with a smile but your voice rings hollow to your ears. 

You turn towards your bedroom but Sam catches your hand and draws you into his arms. He holds you tight, his chest expanding with the deep, slow, and easy breaths, coaxing you to match it. You bury your face in his chest – solid and warm, the first and only moment of comfort you’ve had all day.

“We don’t have to go out tonight,” Sam says, lips brushing the top of your head. 

The rumble of his voice seeps into your bones, easing the weariness of day and you sag against him. You don’t want to go anywhere, you just want to stay here until the warmth of his embrace, and his soft murmurings mend the tear in your spirits, stitch by stitch.

But you can’t, can you?

“But it’s their last run,” you say, reluctantly pulling back. 

“I don’t care about that,” Sam says. “Your comfort is more important than any of that.”

There is nothing in his tone other than sincerity. You search his face for any signs that he’s just being polite but all you see is earnest concern. 

“You sure?” you ask. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m sure,” he says gently, without missing a beat.

The truth was you were exhausted. You would rather pull out your nails than put yourself together enough to go to play and dinner. Something about the way he’s rubbing circles on your arms, the way he waits patiently for your response, and the way he took your disastrous scene in stride, uncurls a tightness wedged in your chest. Sam will accept whatever your answer is with no resentment, and your protective walls ease, though you don’t entirely believe it.

“I can’t go,” you admit quietly. 

“Not a problem,” Sam says, placing another kiss on your forehead. “Go get out these work clothes and I’ll take care of the food.”

“Sam, you don’t have —” 

“I want to,” Sam says firmly. “Now, go.” He nudges you towards your room. 

You take uncertain steps towards the bedroom, throwing back tentative looks at Sam as he surveys the damage in the kitchen. 

“I’ve got this,” he calls to you, catching your glances. “Go!” 

It’s much later. A shower, change of clothes, food and mundane conversation have  tempered your whirlwind of emotions, but exhaustion has left you numb. A movie plays on TV, Ever-after, that you are only half paying attention to. You are curled up against Sam’s side, legs swung over his lap, and face half buried in his chest. The steady thumps of his heart soothe any remaining nerves from the day. 

“What’s got you so twisted up, baby?” Sam finally asks during a commercial break.

His tone is so tender that you nearly start crying again. Your chest tightens at the thought of having to recount your shifting relationship with your parents. You are willing to open up to Sam about it but not tonight. Sam waits patiently for your response, a large hand running up and down your thighs. 

“Family stuff,” you mumble.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks.

You shake your head. It’s too much, far too much history to wade into. And tonight you’re already wrung out. 

“Another time,” you say, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “I… it’s just a lot and I…” you trail, the aching feeling already growing at the edges of your heart.

Sam gives you an understanding look and a knowing squeeze on your leg.

“Whenever you are ready,” he says. 

Comfortable silence falls between you. Sam pulls you closer and nuzzles into your hair as the commercial lists out a truly horrific list of side effects of a medication.

“Sorry about the play,” you say at length. “But I’m glad you stayed.” 

“It was never even a question,” Sam says, tipping your chin up to face him.

He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a gentle reassurance that he is exactly where he wants to be tonight. As you kiss him back, you’re slowly beginning to believe it.