monica thinking

monica thinking

“I can’t wait to go to sleep at night.”

Monica doesn’t know how to explain to her husband why she craves her unconscious. She doesn’t know when it went to sleep in the first place.

Why he can’t hear it.

When Monica sleeps, the sky turns magenta with swishes of blue. It isn’t a blue she can quite describe. It’s a mix of your eyes and the sapphire ring her husband bought her for their third anniversary.

You wouldn’t have bought her anything like that, you aren’t that sort of person.

Monica goes to sleep at exactly 8pm nearly every night. It’s acceptable. 9pm might be more common, but Monica does so much during the day while her husband is at work. She gardens; she draws.

She thinks about you. She tells herself not to. She thinks about you. She tells herself not to.

Monica’s husband has a name, it’s Zac. She doesn’t picture him as a Zac though. Monica thinks he looks more like a Peter or Jeff.

Not Zac.

Zac is a name that reminds her of you, and you have nothing in common with Zac. You have tattoos and shoot heroin. You laugh too loud and have never admitted being wrong.

Not once.

When people ask Monica if she misses you, she acts like she doesn’t hear them. When she avoided Samantha Monahan this way, Samantha said, “Monica. I know you love Zac. But I know you miss him too.”

“Fuck you.”

Monica telephones Agnes. She heard she has a car.

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