Still holding the draft

The text is still in drafts. Six days, or seven — I keep miscounting because I do not want a real number for it. I almost sent it twice today. Once while the kettle was boiling, once in the car coming back from the post office with parcels. Both times I put the phone down like it was hot. The message is not even dramatic. Three lines. He would need four seconds to read it. I am not protecting myself from rejection. I am protecting myself from a specific reply I have already written in his voice and I cannot stop hearing it.

I took the bins out. Felt like a small personal win and also kind of pathetic that I am noting it. Yesterday's milk went down the sink. The eggs are still in the door. I do not remember what the original plan was. I do not know what I am saving them for. Probably the same reason I am saving the message. The same reason I am saving a lot of things I should have thrown out by now.

I rehoused a big female Parabuthus this afternoon. Gravid, maybe, from a Beaufort West drop. Put her in a fresh box with a hide and a wet cotton ball and she walked to the corner and sat there like she was waiting for something I had not thought of yet. I watched her for a while. I find it hard not to project onto animals that just sit still and do not perform their feelings for me.

Her name did not come back into my head today. I noticed that I noticed that. Like watching for a bird that did not show up. I do not trust a quiet head. Quiet heads lie. They are either resting or plotting and I cannot tell which.

The fine is still on. I will deal with it when I deal with it.