7:46 AM is too early to be crying. You’re not fooling any of us. Leave your car there. Open the door and come join me.
I’ll drive you wherever you need to go and you can listen to whatever station you want. NPR.
I have napkins in the glove compartment and three protein bars in my back seat. I have water AND coffee. Plus, I have a credit card with a $10,000 limit. I don’t know what you need, but if it costs less than $8,754, I’ve got you covered.
Do you want to talk out a revenge fantasy? Your boss? Your brother? Your kid? Say what you want, make it hurt. I won’t judge.
Have you been to Ann Arbor? Chicago? You look like the kind of woman who would really enjoy Memphis. A little Elvis. Some barbeque. Some man with a drawl that rarely exists anymore who wants to two-step but doesn’t want to sleep with you. Imagine that. Go ahead. Really. Imagine it.
Or we can go back to your house. I’ll call whoever it was you were going to see and tell them there’s been a delay. Of a couple days. You can go back to bed and I will make you a tea. I will bring it to your bedside and read to you. You can cry all you want or not at all. I’ll dust your living room. We can watch all eleven seasons of Grey’s Anatomy.
Or you can keep driving. I hope by the time you get to where you’re going, you found a modicum of composure. We know, despite the stereotype, it’s not ok for women to cry. We know we will be ridiculed and pitied. It may be expected, but it’s not respected.
If you don’t come with me, you’re gonna have to get that shit together.
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