David came home yesterday, and made dinner. He makes this really yummy pasta with tons of garlic. He was slicing it, and thought it smelled mellow, and put his fingers beneath my nose. I didn't smell garlic. I smelled cigarettes.
Stress is just here. It doesn't seem to be leaving any time soon. It is no longer talked about. Never mentioned actually. We carry on like it is any other day, and have no plans, yet the future seems so uncertain. Too much wine certain evenings makes everything dull. But in the morning, it's still there. It hasn't gone anywhere.
I had a dream the other night of a house, with high ceilings. And beautiful moldings. There were double hung windows, with rippled glass. It made everything outside seem blurry, and distorted. I was standing in a house that didn't exist looking out at a world that wasn't really there.
My fingers ache just thinking about it.