If it were...
Winter:
I'd curl in a ball in front of the fire, nesting in my doona, thick soft flannelette pajamas, bedsocks and gown. I'd sip on hot milo and dunk Tim-Tams till the pain in my heart relocated itself to my overindulged stomach.
If it were Summer:
I'd walk to the waters edge, and slowly edge my way in, letting the soft touch of the water cool my temper, and the rythym of the waves lull me back to peace.
If it were Easter:
I'd visit my Church, and sit among the prayerful as they worked their way through the decades of the Rosary. I'd be settled by the austerity of my surrounds, safe in the systematic ritual of the ecclesiastic calendar.
But it is Spring.
In spring there is little that I can think to do to sooth my breaking heart.
Shane has offered hugs. Hugs cure everything and nothing, I said, I am going to take a bath instead.
Baths cure nothing, he said. It is a fallacy to think that your problems will be washed away with the water.
We are agreed then, I said. Hugs and baths are similar in their intrinsic uselessness. Whats your point? That I should cry myself to sleep with neither?
No, of course not. His point was that he could offer hugs.
I don't need hugs.
I am a strong independant woman, I said.
You don't need to be you know, at least not all the time, he counters.
What would I be otherwise?
...
A weeping, curled up, miserable mess?
Guess I answered my own question.
