For the remainder of the week I hardly left my room. The exceptions being were to plant the palette of perennials, visits to the bathroom, and visits to the fridge or cupboard. The standard summer cabin fever was already setting in.
I’ve re-read The Great Gatsby and even decided to give The Catcher in the Rye another shot; Holden is just so lost and immature. He thinks he rules his world. I wonder if he felt as crazy as I do.
Now it’s Friday night. Mother should be leading one of her groups and father should be conked out in front of the television. A good a time as any to take a stroll about the neighborhood, right? In non suburban life all the kiddies are out drinking the social lubricant and making fools of themselves. Me? I could use a swim.
I glide down the stairs hardly touching a stair; the front door parts for me like a curtain; darting across the (loved) front lawn and into the street. As soon as my, formerly white, sneakers hit the black top I break into a sprint. I go until my chest burns and my throat feels raspy. I turn off into a distant neighbors yard, climb, and clear the fence into the backyard. Perfect! I splash into the glassy surface of water surrounded by the structure of their in-ground pool.