Miscount.

Like a fool, I managed to miscount the days until my boyfriend arrives to see me. It's been 57 days since I last saw his eyes just above his scarf and below his cap as he mumbled his goodbyes to me on the cold stoop of my apartment. He nuzzled my neck, urging me to go inside, as I cried tears that frosted on my cheeks. He walked with reluctance, looking over his shoulder at me in the frame of the door, then, feeling the pressure of the cold and the time, briskly away.

All week long, I've greeted him with morning wakeup calls, a countdown until a kiss good morning. I've met him with phrases like "is it Saturday morning yet?" and "Friday will be the longest day ever" which he simply agreed with. It wasn't until this evening when I was looking over the copy of his ticket, in my safe keeping, that I choked on my own heart. Never once had he corrected my count, never did he question me. Sunday. Sunday morning he'd arrive. Forgive me, but I sobbed like a child. Had he been listening at all? Was he as confused as I? One more day of waiting, one less day together. One more day alone.

To say it was devastating isn't hyperbole. I've not been myself in such a long time, if I'm honest. I've had such great plans to write, but every time I've sat down to let the words out, it's been nothing but hate that flows from my fingers.

And here's some more.

I hate what I've done. I've made the worst mistake living here. I spend my mornings rushing about for work, putting on my makeup so I have some hope of making money and gobbling up a bowl full of plain oats and water as quickly as I can with a cup of black coffee or five. I put on a crusty, unisex t shirt and jeans I hate with clunky shoes, ripping apart at the soles, and trudge to work in the snow, hoping to god no one's caught onto my routine, to my commute. Hoping no one will be waiting for me behind the dumpster after my shift to collect my cash. Sometimes, my customers sometimes tell me I'm too thin and leave no tip for me to eat off of. Sometimes they do.

I come home, greasy, hungry, hurt, to an apartment that smells faintly of sewage and is full of tiny gnats. I clean the place, top to bottom. My roommates, sister and her husband, don't speak to me. I make something of a meal as quickly as I can and eat it on top of my pillow on my bed. My cat begs. I don't enjoy eating anymore. I do it, more or less to not feel ill or sluggish. I haven't weighed over 100lbs since September. I have to make my food last until next unknown grocery day when I'm permitted to grab the essentials at a miniKroger while they wait impatiently, propped up against a Redbox. I'm afraid to eat too much and run out of food. Currently, I have four eggs, celery, a jar of jalapenos, a jar of pickles, and a few condiments to my name.

Sometimes, for fun, I shop online. It's nice having little packages to look forward to. I never get to leave the house to shop otherwise. I buy dresses, heels, skirts, and blouses I never wear. I still have a dress from August with the tags on it. It's a simple, Navy dress. It's very Kate Middleton and maybe some day I'll wear it to Keenland. Maybe I can pretend I'm someone and drink a glass of cabernet with shoes on.

I usually drink in bed. Alone. I watch Netflix. I cry. I can't read. Reading doesn't have all of the wonderful distracting elements of movies and television. Reading makes me contemplate my own life whilst my eyes drift over unstimulating hieroglyphs until the sound of my upstairs neighbors having sex derails the entire process. There are times when I've pulled myself together, researching my way out. My escape from Cinderella to the life of Amelie. I calculate income and rent, I pour over maps, floor plans, and used car ads. It's somewhat satisfying.

And I count the days.

When I left work today, I said goodbye to everyone. So many oohs and ahhs, nudging me with their elbows at what my Spring Break would hold in my tiny apartment with the boy I haven't seen in two months. Sex, sex, and more sex. Days of laying in bed, eating dry cereal and drinking gatorade was the consensus.

Sex is good, but my god, I'm looking forward to feeling valuable again.

My heart feels every hour that my hope robbed from it. It's midnight. 57 hours to go.