failing

pg | no warnings apply

She's quite sure she's committed each of the seven deadly sins at least once in the past twenty-four hours.

She finished off a carton of ice cream last night, even though she really wasn't hungry. As she tossed the empty container in the trash, she considered the fact that she had become a cliché: the woman shoving Ben & Jerry's in her mouth as a substitute for love. (She rolled her eyes, just thinking about it.)

She ignored the alarm this morning, hitting the snooze button and burrowing into the sheets. She waited until the last possible moment to move, and even then, she contemplated calling in sick. It wouldn't be a total lie; her stomach felt twisted the minute she awoke.

She drove by a beautiful house on the way to work, and she was surprised she had never noticed it before. (For a moment, her mind pondered the possibility that it had been dropped out of the sky, by aliens, and she instantly chastised herself.) Slowing down, her eyes drank in the splendor. It was expensive beyond her wildest dreams, but she craved it. She could envision herself, bag of groceries on her hip, ushering the children she'd never have into her home.

A colleague had decided to give her grief this morning, because she hadn't heard the Mrs. Spooky cracks enough. She embellished her talk with words he didn't understand, referencing studies he'd never heard of, and she smirked the whole time. (I know something you don't know...)

She clenched her jaw when Diana walked by, tamping down the urge to slam her head into the wall. That would be the ultimate cliché: getting into a catfight, right in the middle of the FBI building. (She could take the uppity little bitch, though.)

Diana touched his arm, leaned in close, and whispered something for his ears only. He smiled, and for a moment, they looked like they might kiss.

She imagined those lips, on her body instead. His hands, removing her clothing.

(fin.)