Miami

My airline no longer flies into MIA, but I can clearly recall several amazing layovers there (from a past life, with a different company!). Somewhere near Coconut Grove, there was a bar there with sand on the floor and a mini indoor volleyball net...which I had to make good use of, obviously.

Every city has its own personality, but Miami is in a category of its own. It's vibrant, loud, and unapologetic. My nights there felt truly magical, like a whirlwind fictional tale just waiting to be written.  

Callie adores the SoFlo vibe too, although this time around, her trip is quite different from previous ones. In a good way, that is.

Xoxo, 

Lisa

***

I scoot an inch closer and nestle into his neck. He wraps an around me, covering my shoulders. Say it now? I debate. Andrew tilts my chin up, so I’m facing him. His eyes are bigger than ever, two dark brown spheres of kindness and warmth.

“I wonder when you’re going to get sick of my bullshit,” I say with a half-snort. “I’m not exactly the easiest person in the world to deal with…”

His brows furrow. “Fine by me. I don’t mind your bullshit at all.”

That’s because you don’t know everything I’ve done, I reflect. I hold his face in my hands, pausing for a split second. His skin feels warm against my fingertips.

Then I press my lips to his, enjoying the familiarity of this kiss. Andrew is cautious and thoughtful, adjusting his arm around my back so that I can lean into him comfortably. He pulls me toward him, kissing my mouth first, then making his way to my neck.

I tilt my head slightly back. His hands have migrated to my waist. I sense both desire and tenacity in his touch; his eagerness is equally matched by restraint.

Briefly, I open my eyes. This hotel room is just dim enough, just quiet enough that if I don’t speak up, we could both get lost in this moment.

I inhale and search for my voice.

“Maybe we should go,” Andrew murmurs, reading my mind. “Otherwise, we might stay here all night. I’d love to-”

“We are on the same page,” I interrupt, well aware of all the things he would like to do in this hotel room because I want to do them too. “Tess would think we stood her up and I would end up going to bed hungry.”

Andrew rises to his feet and pulls me onto mine. “We can’t have that, right? Let’s go get food.”

We walk to the elevators, hands clasped together. I text Tess to meet us in the lobby while Andrew checks his phone.

“Hey guys. Nice to meet you, Andrew,” Tess says when she approaches us.

We are standing near the entrance, our fingers still interlocked.

“You too,” Andrew responds. “I heard this is your first time in Miami.”

We walk outside together, a blast of tepid air swirling around our faces. I glance at the sky as we advance toward Andrew’s Mazda. Hundreds of stars shimmer overhead, some of them occasionally winking.

 “I was here once before, but it was a short layover. I didn’t leave the hotel,” Tess explains.

We pile into the car and buckle up. Tess is in the backseat. I’m riding up front with Andrew. I lower the window, letting a warm breeze into the car. Andrew steers us down wide streets, glittered with fluorescent lights and quirky storefronts.

“It’s beautiful,” Tess murmurs, her voice filled with wonder.

“Miami is the busiest, flashiest city in Florida,” I tell her. “I love the glamour of it. But it’s totally different from Orlando, which feels a lot more residential.”

“Then there’s Jacksonville, which is pretty much South Georgia. People there even have Southern accents,” Andrew notes.

I nod as we cruise to a stop in front of red light. A Cadillac pulls up one side of our car and a shiny black Porsche rests beside us on the other side. “I went to school in Gainesville, which is a fun college town,” I explain. “Everything nearby is pretty rural, though.”

“Hey, how’s Fort Myers?” Tess asks. “I have a long overnight there in a couple weeks, and I was hoping to visit the beach.”

“We were just in Fort Myers,” Andrew informs her, pulling into a massive parking garage. We wind around, level after level, searching for an open spot. “It’s a sleepy little retirement community, but the beaches are a lot less crowded than in other cities.”

“And the crew hotel is literally on the water,” I say. “There’s a swimming pool and then right behind it, bam: the ocean.”

Tess releases a contented sigh as Andrew parks the car. We’re probably a dozen floors up; the garage is completely packed. There are luxury cars, sedans, shiny motorcycles, and everything in between.

“That’s awesome. Honestly, I can’t wait,” Tess notes. “I’ve been in California my whole life. The beaches are way too cold to go swimming. I’m excited to finally dip my toes in the water."

We exit the car and walk toward the elevators, stopping briefly to check out the view. The walls of the garage have large square cutouts, essentially windows without any glass. Tonight the sky’s just clear enough for us to see all the way to the water’s edge. Andrew’s fingers find mine, once again, as we marvel at the bright lights of this South Florida metropolis. His hands are cool but not clammy, and soft to the touch. I’ve never been a fan of romantic displays of affection before. But with Andrew, this feels natural. It feels right.

After soaking up the spectacular view for a few moments, we ride an elevator down to the street level. Tiny yellow lights cover all the trees. We advance toward a large roundabout, passing bars and boutiques along the way.  

“How do you two feel about Mexican food? There’s a new place that got great reviews,” Andrew tells us.

“Sounds good to me,” Tess says.

“I’m in,” I announce. Andrew steers us toward a restaurant with a vintage golden awning. The restaurant’s interior strikes me as both trendy and rustic. Exposed beams stretch across the the ceiling. The walls have been stained various neutral colors, with the grain of the wood visible. There’s a taco bar on one side and a liquor bar on the other. A hostess seats us at a big booth; it’s more than enough space for the three of us.

Andrew checks his phone while Tess and I glance over the menu.

“My buddy Connor might join us,” he announces. “He lives in Coconut Grove, which isn’t far from here.”

“Someone else is coming?” Tess asks, looking up from her menu.

Andrew nods. “I have a couple friends in Miami. Guys I know from college. I invited Connor to meet us out, and I texted Luis too. Haven’t heard back from Luis yet.”

We order guacamole and queso to start. I hadn’t noticed my rumbling stomach until we set foot in the restaurant, but now I am keenly aware just how hungry I am. Today was hectic and stressful, between my guilt and my raging hangobver. In the midst of all the chaos, I hadn’t eaten much.

The queso arrives right away. I let Tess take the first scoop before reaching for the bowl. I grab Andrew a few spoonfuls, too. We share a small, round plate, taking turns munching on tortilla chips. As we eat, I lean into him. He slips an arm behind my back and we sit like this, casual and carefree, while Tess talks about the cities she’ll be visiting this month.

Palm Beach Gardens

After college, I lived in West Palm for a couple years. I loved everything about South Florida. I'm a beach girl, a stereotypical summer baby who seizes every opportunity to throw on a bikini and feel the sand between my toes. My apartment was located two blocks from the beach; occasionally I'd open the screen door and fall asleep to the sound of the ocean.

My years in WPB were full of carefree days and sparkly, fast-paced nights. I made friends in every industry imaginable. We stayed up way too late, enjoying our youth and our short-lived (and completely manageable) hangovers. It was the perfect location for a starry-eyed daydreamer like me.

Callie is not quite as addicted to South Florida. However, she's made up her mind to move there. She imagined herself learning to love West Palm eventually...but there was a different kind of love she never, ever saw coming. 

Xoxo,
Lisa


***

“Welcome back, Callie,” Andrew says.

“Thanks,” I respond. Then I kiss him, because it feels like the right thing to do. After all, he has rearranged his whole schedule for me.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” he murmurs after our kiss. Then he hoists my bags into the trunk and opens the passenger side door for me. “How was your flight?”

“It was great,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. “Standby flights stress me out, but this one was wide open. I got a whole row to myself.”

“Did you take a nap?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I did some writing.”

“What are you working on?” Andrew asks as we merge onto Belvedere Rd and then I-95.

“Damn. I thought I told you already...I have a blog.”

“A travel blog?” he guesses.

I inhale sharply. “No, it’s actually pretty weird. And awkward. I’ve been writing open letters that help me sort through all my emotions, curiosities, and fears.”

I hold my breath while waiting for Andrew to respond. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to me how strange it would feel to tell Andrew about dozens of letters which indirectly, and sometimes directly, involve him.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he reaches across the console and grabs my hand. “I’d love to read your blog, Cal. If you want me to.”

“Of course I do,” I say. “And feel free to tell me if my letters are cheesy or boring or too personal. Honest feedback helps a lot, even if it’s negative.”

“You got it. Although I’m sure I will love them.”

We park in front of Andrew’s complex and he carries my bags to his apartment. The unit is different than I remember. To be fair, I was three sheets to the wind last time I set foot in this place. It’s incredibly clean, clutter-free, and cozy. It has an open floor plan, no doors except for the ones leading to the bedroom and bathroom. There's a wraparound couch in the living room, with dark wood end tables. They match both the coffee table and media console.

I grab a seat on the couch, sinking into the cushions. With a contented sigh, I lean back until my head is resting comfortably. Andrew places my bags in the bedroom, then sits down beside me.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “Not starving or anything, but I can always eat.”

He looks at his watch. “Traffic might be bad now, but what if we grab dinner in about an hour? Does that work?”

I smile. “Sounds great to me.”

“Maybe I can check out your blog in the meantime...” he suggests.

I sit up and type the web address into my phone. “Sure. Here ya go. Sorry in advance if it sucks.”

“Oh, stop. I know you well enough to know it’s not going to suck,” he insists.

“Don’t say that ‘til you read it,” I warn with a half-smile.

While Andrew reads my blog, I lean on his shoulder.  A big window next to the television reveals the last traces of daylight. They dance on the horizon, briefly, before fading into the dark sky. Palm trees shimmer beneath the moon. Their leaves cast shadows on the wall, dancing around me as Andrew immerses himself in the emotional letters which have no recipient.

I close my eyes, sinking deeper into the space between his cheek and his collarbone. He smells good, a cologne I’ve grown to love over the past few weeks. Without looking away from my phone, Andrew slides his arm around me. Somehow his touch is both firm and reassuring.

“Callie,” he breathes.

“Mmm?”

“You have a gift, Cal,” he says.

I open my eyes. “You don’t have to say that, Andrew.”

“I do,” he insists. “Because I mean it. The thing about your writing is, it’s honest and compelling. It doesn’t require a background story. Actually, it doesn’t even require an identity. I think the anonymity is part of the reason your blog is so interesting. It’s relatable.”

“Really?” I ask, placing my hands on his chest so I can face him directly.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m a thirty-year-old male who knows nothing about living in San Francisco or flying around the country every week. Yet, in spite of all that, I had a tough time putting the phone down because I just wanted to read another post, then another, then another. So the answer is yes, Callie, I definitely think it’s engaging. You grabbed my attention and kept it the whole time. This is good stuff.”

I smile. “Thank you, Andrew. I needed to hear that.”

“Someone is going to discover your talent,” he tells me, his brown eyes fixed on mine. “You are something special, Callie Schneider.”

“Nah, I’m just a free-spirited stewardess that fell into bed with a stranger,” I tell him. “Who happens to be a really good guy, it turns out…”

“Yeah? I guess he’s alright,” Andrew laughs.

He leans in to kiss me. I hold his face and kiss him back, small kisses at first and then bigger, more dramatic ones.

We’ve slept in the same bed so many times, cuddling and talking and falling asleep to the sound of each other’s heartbeat. That was enough for me, in the past. I didn’t need anything more.

But now, straddling Andrew on the couch in his living room, moonlight pouring in through all the windows, I am revived. And also certain. My skin tingles with anticipation.

We’ve done this before, under drastically different circumstances.  This time, I want to savor it.

I pull Andrew’s shirt over his head, tossing it behind the couch. He slides his hand under my sweater, his palm cool against my stomach. He looks at me for a moment.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes brimming with concern and hope and curiosity.

“I’m sure,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, I really am.

Memphis

In my experience, flight attendants seem to be obsessed with Nashville.  I don't blame them; Music City is definitely an addicting place.  I never turn down a chance to visit BNA, especially if I can score a long layover at our downtown hotel.

But I've found there's a certain charm to Memphis, too, which seems to be less of a fan favorite among my coworkers.  The authenticity of that city strikes a chord in me; it's not necessarily the most glamorous place on Earth, but the music is raw and filled with passion.  Plus, it has such a rich history. If that weren't enough, the food in Memphis is to die for. 

The main character in my book, Callie Schneider, shares my appreciation for this unassuming city in southern Tennessee. She can't resist a night out, which leaves her with a (somewhat familiar) decision to make.

xoxo, 
Lisa


***

Blues City Cafe is loud, with dramatic melodies pouring onto the street. There’s a souvenir shop next door with tons of vintage guitars and faded, old concert t-shirts. The store is closed now, but the display case shines brightly, illuminating a large stretch of sidewalk. I pause for a split second, musing at the miscellaneous items with intricate and diverse backstories.

Across the street, a man plays guitar, harmonica, and drums all at once. He has rigged his instruments together so he can use them simultaneously. I glance at the guy, impressed by his musical abilities but even more amazed at his creativity. Fumbling in my purse, I grab my phone to send a photo to Mackenzie. The nighttime backdrop is too dark, though, or maybe I’m too far away.  The picture doesn’t turn out. With a shrug, I continue toward Silky O’Sullivan’s.

There’s no line outside the door. Once I’m in the bar, I spot my crew at a table toward the back. Meandering toward them, I notice college flags dangling from the ceiling, representing at least 20 state schools. A gator grins down at me, outlined in bright orange.

I snap a photo of the Gator flag and send it to Mackie. Her response arrives as I reach my coworkers’ table. Ew. That bar looks dumb. I smile at the text. Mack’s a Georgia alum. I don’t bother to show her the bulldog flag hanging right in front of the stage.

“Oh, hey guys,” I say, grabbing the last open seat at the table.

“Callie! What a nice surprise,” Jonah tells me. “Glad you made it.”

“Me too. I was on the fence because I was pretty tired! But I decided to venture out of the hotel room for an hour or two,” I say, glancing around the table. “Where’s Brittany?”

“She has friends in town, so she left us half an hour ago,” the captain tells me. She’s a pretty brunette with reading glasses resting on top of her head. I vaguely remember flying with her before, but I can’t recall when or where. I also have no idea what her name is.

”Gotcha. What did you order, Captain?” I ask, nodding toward her mostly-empty dish. The edge of the plate is lined a couple potato chips.  

“Cajun chicken sandwich,” she tells me. “It was great.”

“Let’s get you a menu,” the first officer suggests, flagging down a waiter.

“That’s ok. I know what I want; same thing as last time. I’ll get the brisket salad,” I tell our waiter.

A band ascends the stage, hauling instruments and bulky equipment. The lead singer has shaggy hair down to his shoulders. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. The other two guys are a bit younger and more clean-shaven.

I watch the band maneuver around the stage, pressing foot pedals and testing all the microphones. Strangely, it reminds me of the first time I ever sang at open mic night in SF. I was so nervous, even though that bar had about half as many people as O’Sullivans does tonight. I wasn’t worried that my voice would shake or that I’d sing off key; instead, I was terrified that people would find my lyrics boring.

“The last band was really good,” the first officer says, leaning toward me.

Startled, I gasp. Then I shake my head apologetically. “Shit, sorry. I was in my own little world.”

He stares at me for a moment. His dark eyes squint as the corners of his mouth turn upward. “Did you pregame in your room or something?”

“Definitely not. I’m cutting back on booze. It’s my New Year’s Resolution,” I lie. “Just food for me tonight.”

“Well that’s too bad,” Jonah says from across the table. “I was hoping to go bar-hopping.”

“Early night for me,” I say, flicking my wrist. “But you guys have fun. Memphis is a great city.”

The band begins to play, chords slicing through the air with determination. This song has a driving beat. The lead singer croons into the mic. His deep, soulful voice adds complexity to the song. Suddenly, I find myself tapping my foot. Whatever type of music this is, some mix of classic rock and pop and blues, I like it.

My salad arrives as the band wraps up its first song. I hungrily stab a forkful of brisket. Across the table, Jonah’s laughing about something with the captain.

“Where are you guys based?” the first officer asks me.

“San Francisco,” I respond between bites. “But I’m moving to Florida by the end of the month. Switching to the Fort Lauderdale base. How about you two?”

“Chicago,” he says. “Teresa commutes from Indianapolis, but I live there.”

“Teresa! That’s it. I’d forgotten her name. I think I’ve worked with that captain before, maybe a couple years ago,” I muse. “She’s nice, huh?”

He nods. “She’s great. I’ve only been at SkyLine for six months, but she’s by far the best captain I’ve flown with.”

“Just six months? You’re a newbie! Welcome to the circus, man. Do you like it here?”

The band begins a fast song, lights swirling around the stage in sync with the drums. A few tipsy people dance in the middle of the bar. They hold their beers high, swaying to the rhythm of the music while occasionally bumping into each other.

“I love it,” the first officer says. “Worked at a commuter airline for six years, based out of Phoenix. It was okay, but the crews are friendlier at SkyLine. And the trips are so much better. We used to do seven legs a day, then end in some random tiny town in the Pacific Northwest, like Walla Walla.”

“Walla Walla? SkyLine tends to fly to bigger airports,” I say, cracking a smile. “Although I got stuck overnight in Akron, Ohio one time. After we diverted.”

“I bet that was fun.”

“Actually, it was,” I reflect. “I had a good crew and we Ubered to the one part of town with a decent nightlife. Two streets packed with clubs and restaurants. It was cuter than any of us expected, to be honest! Ended up dancing in a dive bar someplace.”

The first officer smiles. “You know, that doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes the least exciting layovers end up creating the best memories.”

“True. But the big cities are really fun, too,” I muse. “One of my first trips here, I had double New York layovers. I stayed out in Manhattan until probably 3am each night and slept two hours. It was worth it.”

“Yep,” the first officer says with a nod. After wrapping up a lively song, the band slows down the tempo. This one’s more bluesy than the previous tunes, heartfelt and melodramatic. It doesn’t have the beat of the earlier pop songs.  Because of this, the people who have congregated in front of the stage to dance return to their bar stools, ordering another round. I glance at their cocktails and pint glasses, slightly envious of everyone who gets to drink freely. Alcohol has tasted terrible since I found out I was pregnant.

Tonight, however, I’d kill for a double shot of vodka. With this atmosphere, it just feels right.

“So what’s your name?” I ask, returning my focus to the pilot beside me. “Sorry. We all introduced ourselves on the plane, but I forgot…”

“Shawn,” he tells me. “I didn’t forget your name, Callie.”

I swallow the last few bites of salad, cleaning my plate. “It’s easier to just call you guys ‘captain’ and ‘F.O.’ We switch pilots so often, and I can’t keep track of the name changes.”

“That’s one thing I miss about the commuter airline,” Shawn notes. “We kept the same crew all three days.”

In some ways, that could be dangerous, I muse, recalling the times I’d ended up in a pilot’s hotel room without necessarily meaning to. It had only happened once or twice, but I’d ducked out of there as soon as possible. Having to engage in small talk the next day would’ve been painful; instead, we’d flown to opposite corners of the country. Thankfully.  

“I like switching it up,” I inform Shawn. “Keeps things interesting, ya know?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Across the table, Jonah jumps to his feet. “Who wants to dance with me?”

The band is finished playing; as they grab their equipment and exit the stage, hip-hop music blares through speakers. People return to the dance floor.

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

Jonah frowns. “C’mon, Callie. You’re going to make me dance alone?”

“Teresa will go with you,” I say, volunteering the captain. She laughs and shakes her head. “Ok then, Shawn will dance.”

“The hell I will,” Shawn scoffs, taking another swig of beer. “I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“We can fix that. Let’s get you another IPA,” I suggest, flagging down the waiter.

***

I pull Jonah toward me, shouting that I want a selfie to send to my best friend, Mackenzie. The music is loud, drowning out most of what I say. Jonah doesn’t care, though. He laughs and wraps his arm around my shoulder like we have known each other for decades.

“Get my good angle!” he demands, tilting his chin downward.

We stop dancing long enough to smile for three photos. The forward flash blinds us, a burst of light in this dark bar. Around us, people continue dancing, oblivious to the fact that they’re in the background of our shot.

“I like the second one,” Jonah says as he thumbs through the pictures. “Add me on Snapchat."

"You got it." I tell him. I send him the photo and then text it to Mackie, too. “Hey, I think I’ll head back soon. It’s past my bedtime.”

“Be safe! I’m going to go make friends,” Jonah tells me. Before I can say anything, he disappears into the crowd. The music speeds up, bringing more and more people to this crowded dance floor.

Looks fun! Love you, Cal. Off to bed…  Mackie texts me. Nite.

I look around, attempting to spot Teresa and Shawn. Our table is completely empty; the waiter is clearing away plates and pint glasses.

Maybe they went back to the hotel, I think. Checking my phone, I realize I’ve missed my midnight curfew by half an hour. I grab my jacket, preparing to walk back to the hotel.

“Callie,” someone says behind me.

I turn around to find Shawn in front of the bar, finishing his drink. He sets the empty cup on the counter and smiles at me. “How was dancing?”

I shrug. “I got a ton of compliments.”

He nods. “I bet you did.”

“I thought you and Teresa left already,” I tell him.

“Teresa called it a night when you and Jonah got up to dance. She was tired. You heading back to the hotel now?” he asks, nodding toward the jacket in my hand.

“Yes,” I say.

“I’ll come with you,” Shawn volunteers. “It’s too late for you to walk back alone.”

I snort. It’s barely midnight; I’ve walked home later than this in San Francisco too many times to count. In the freezing cold. While tipsy.

Shawn and I walk up Beale Street, quiet for the first few steps. There are tons of street vendors and local musicians; it doesn’t feel like midnight, with all these folks filling up the street. We pass a juggler and a contortionist.

“Where are you guys heading tomorrow?” Shawn asks me, breaking the silence.

“Three flights to Santa Fe. You?”

“Two flights back to base,” Shawn says as we reach the hotel. “I’m still recovering from the holidays. Pretty sure if I had to work another day, I’d fall asleep in the cockpit.”

“Like you’ve never done that before,” I chuckle. The lobby is quiet and calm, basically the opposite of what we just saw on Beale Street. There’s a cooler of water infused with lemons and strawberries. We each fill a plastic cup before heading toward the elevator.

“It was brutal,” Shawn assures me once we’ve chugged our fruity water. “Holidays are a shitstorm when you’re battling your ex over visitation.”

“Divorced?” I guess. “Coupla kids?”

Shawn presses the “up” button and we wait for an elevator car. “Yes and yes. My girl’s two, my boy is seven.”

“Is it hard to be gone so much?”

He nods. “Thank god I don’t have to commute to Phoenix anymore. I missed weeks at a time, back then. I would come home and my boy had grown like three inches taller.”

“I can imagine,” I say as the elevator doors swing open, even though I can’t imagine it at all. “You live in Chicago, right?”

“North side. In a city called Wilmette,” Shawn says. “Go Cubs.”

I laugh. “I’m a Giants fan now. It’s a requirement, if you live in SF. Back in the day, though, I went to every Red Sox game. My parents are obsessed.”

Shawn sighs. “Nobody’s perfect…”

I elbow him in the ribs, pressing the button for the seventh floor. Shawn hits a different button, illuminating the oversized “9.”

“Come watch a movie with me,” he says as we shoot upward, each floor lighting up as we pass it. “I’ll find something on my iPad.”

I pause. “Shawn, I gotta go to sleep…”

He reaches for my arm, turning me until I face him. “Just an hour. I won’t keep you up late.”

“Can everyone please stop hitting on me?” I murmur, shifting my gaze down to my feet. “Seriously. I’ve been single for the last four years and now, when I’m in literally the worst spot of my entire life, everyone decides they want me.”

Shawn lifts an eyebrow. “Look, we don’t have to do anything. I’m not an asshole, I just want to hang out. It’s still early.”

The elevator stops abruptly. Doors fling open.

“This is my floor,” I tell Shawn. I sigh, then wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. The doors slide shut while we are standing like this. “Well fuck...”

“Now you have to come up,” he says with a shrug. The elevator begins its trek to the ninth floor.

I pry myself from Shawn’s shoulder. “Look, I’m kinda dating someone. And it would be nice to wake up in the morning not feeling like the worst human on earth.”

Shawn nods. “Ok. I understand. I’m not trying to interfere, Callie.”

We reach his floor, and he tentatively steps off the elevator.

“Goodnight, First Officer,” I say with a wave and a weak smile.

He tilts his head to the side, standing two feet in front of the elevator doors. “Goodnight, Flight Attendant.”

The doors close and I return to the seventh floor. Inside my hotel room, I lean against the counter for a minute before washing my face. I stare at myself, at the image of a person approaching thirty and still struggling to make choices that aren’t self-destructive.

Then I change clothes and slide into bed.