I woke up yesterday, leapt out of bed, and crashed to the floor. The room went round and round and round. Holy shit, I thought, how much did I drink last night?
Two glasses of Zin back in the Champagne Room with an out-of-town computer programmer named Gene or something. So that's not it.
After the second glass he grabbed my hand and tried to make me touch his dick. My usual M.O. when customer wants more than I'm willing to give is to giggle and flinch and weasel around and hope it takes them at least an hour to figure out that I'm not selling what they're buying, so I can collect my hour's fee. But that night I was feeling tired. I didn't have an hour's worth of wiggle left in me. I laced his finger into mine and looked up into his face with all the piercing sincerity a farmgirl from heartland can summon. "Listen, I really want you to have a good time," I said. "I really do. But some things I just don't do."
We looked at each other. Then his face went all squishy and he clutched me to his breast and started kissing the top of my head. Well, whatever. He stayed an hour and I made my fee. (Plus tip.)
Then I woke up the next morning with the room going round me like a carousel. I headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water, veering like a drunk. I drank some water and then, with much concentration, filled a bowl with cereal and tried to eat. But every time I turned my head I felt like I was at sea in a storm. I wove back down the hall and into bed, said fuck it to the day, and went back to sleep. I had a terrible dream about losing my purse on a sinking ocean-liner, looking for it everywhere while the water rushed in the portholes, terrible and black.
I woke up late in the afternoon. C. came home and fussed over me, told me I was probably just tired, and made me stay in bed. This morning I woke up a little better. Still swimmy. Then C. and I had a fight about money and I stewed for an hour after he left for work.
I had asked him if he would mind looking for another job, because his current weekend gig pays just enough to support his vices, but not enough to help me out with the household expenses. He reminded me that I agreed to support him while he finishes school, and why don't I just suck it up and dance a few more nights a month and everything would be peachy?
I know this was the deal. C. would go to school. I would make money. I wasn't supposed to get involved with a dayjob project that takes up too much time and pays next to nothing. I was just supposed to dance. I did it for a year, but I'm way to too frenetic to be happy with just that. I have to have projects. I have to keep my mind busy.
I don't mind supporting C. I don't mind hard work. What I mind is the guilt, the recriminations, the constant feeling that I could and should be doing more, more, more, more, more. I think I might have to leave him, or maybe kill him. Not because I don't love him, but in the spirit in which a fox chews off it's leg to get out of a trap.
In the mean time if I turn my head too fast I think I'm falling. Did I have a fucking stroke? I'm going back to the couch to sit very, very still.