My husband came home last night with a little white box beautifully tied with a shell pink ribbon, each miniature pastry inside a perfect sculpture. I didn't touch a single one, they looked so pretty all together like that. My man also made me stuffed dates wrapped with prosciutto, and poured fizzy Prosecco into the pair of champagne flutes we got as a wedding present, the ones that are his favorites that we use only when it's just us two, and we had a fine evening together, vanquishing my melancholia, which he knew had been advancing all that day.
I love that he cared.
But this morning, on waking, the weirdness again, the unmoored feeling, the free floating sadness whose source I cannot place. It's as if I'm drifting out in space all by my lonesome, despite all evidence to the contrary. I know it's my own brain that is tricking me, my own internal chemistry giving rise to these brooding thoughts, this sense of being lost on the plain.
Going to watch Fifa World Cup soccer with my man today. Going to let his passion for the game wash over me. Passion is the antithesis of inertia. Maybe.
I love him.