that was what she was doing now, yanking my chain by not answering the phone and acting like she was getting along famously with the Timberwolves’ starting lineup. I knew she felt I was being too possessive and distrusting, so maybe this was my payback for the crime of giving a shit. Whatever the case, I was getting tired of her act. The lack of sex alone was putting me on edge with her. I have always wanted to have a relationship that works as well in bed as well as it does out of bed. And with Caitlin, I wasn’t doing well in or out . Her mean streak and constant verbal abuse were putting the relationship to the test. But as mad as I was, I knew I’d be lonely if I showed her ass to the proverbial door.
In my days as a player in the bar and nightclub scene (which was basically my entire twenties and on into my early thirties), the trick of getting over the girl you were with (and about to lose) was to quickly find another girl and bed down with her immediately. It was the best method of softening the blow. And the antidote to my current problem with Caitlin was Dr. Samantha Fleming.
During my evening with Sam, I hadn’t thought once of Caitlin until the lovely doctor had kissed me. It was then that my guilty conscience took control of my cheating heart, just as it had taken control of it while I was in the powerful presence of the redheaded librarian. My conscience is the mechanism that keeps my moral compass in check. But now was the time to recalibrate that compass. I wasn’t willing to attribute Caitlin’s mean-spirited behavior to her childhood anymore. After all, like her I was also an orphan, but I’ve never used my bitter childhood as a license to mistreat and disrespect others. At least, I really hope I haven’t.
I turned off my cell phone and disconnected my land line. If I wasn’t going to sleep, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to stay up all night waiting for Caitlin to call, though that seemed very unlikely.
I went to the living room. Propped against the piano I didn’t play anymore was my new guitar. I powered up the laptop computer that was sitting on top of the piano and then logged on to the guitar instruction website. Sitting on the piano bench, I started strumming away, practicing and playing whatever the online instructors told me to. These guys made playing fun, teaching actual songs that other people would want to hear. I immersed myself in my guitar playing, and for the next four hours I didn’t think about a damned thing.
And it felt good.
…
Hours later, while lying on the couch reading Atlas Shrugged , I glanced up at the grandfather clock next to the piano: it was eleven a.m. I still hadn’t slept, but I was pleased I had read 450 pages of Ayn Rand’s literary masterpiece. I was using speed reading techniques I had learned as a boy. That, combined with the benefits of the self-induced mania I was now finally enjoying, had allowed me to breeze through that book as quickly as I had. My mind was sharp. I didn’t feel like my feet were stuck in the mud anymore, which is how I had always felt while on the meds.
I felt a little hung over from the wine I’d had at Sam’s house last night, but I really didn’t feel all that bad. In fact, she’d been right. The alcohol had done me less harm than good. The rich food she’d served had alleviated my nausea and softened my killer headache. It didn’t make sense, but she knew more about combatting withdrawal symptoms than I did. Operating under the same theory, after finally putting down the guitar at six a.m., I made myself a hearty breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and orange juice. After that, a shower and a shave had me feeling mostly human again.
I had thought of lacing up my running shoes and hitting the streets, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Besides, I only ran to keep my weight down, and in the past two days I had lost five or six pounds, even though I’d had two big meals. I made a mental note to ask Sam if
In my days as a player in the bar and nightclub scene (which was basically my entire twenties and on into my early thirties), the trick of getting over the girl you were with (and about to lose) was to quickly find another girl and bed down with her immediately. It was the best method of softening the blow. And the antidote to my current problem with Caitlin was Dr. Samantha Fleming.
During my evening with Sam, I hadn’t thought once of Caitlin until the lovely doctor had kissed me. It was then that my guilty conscience took control of my cheating heart, just as it had taken control of it while I was in the powerful presence of the redheaded librarian. My conscience is the mechanism that keeps my moral compass in check. But now was the time to recalibrate that compass. I wasn’t willing to attribute Caitlin’s mean-spirited behavior to her childhood anymore. After all, like her I was also an orphan, but I’ve never used my bitter childhood as a license to mistreat and disrespect others. At least, I really hope I haven’t.
I turned off my cell phone and disconnected my land line. If I wasn’t going to sleep, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to stay up all night waiting for Caitlin to call, though that seemed very unlikely.
I went to the living room. Propped against the piano I didn’t play anymore was my new guitar. I powered up the laptop computer that was sitting on top of the piano and then logged on to the guitar instruction website. Sitting on the piano bench, I started strumming away, practicing and playing whatever the online instructors told me to. These guys made playing fun, teaching actual songs that other people would want to hear. I immersed myself in my guitar playing, and for the next four hours I didn’t think about a damned thing.
And it felt good.
…
Hours later, while lying on the couch reading Atlas Shrugged , I glanced up at the grandfather clock next to the piano: it was eleven a.m. I still hadn’t slept, but I was pleased I had read 450 pages of Ayn Rand’s literary masterpiece. I was using speed reading techniques I had learned as a boy. That, combined with the benefits of the self-induced mania I was now finally enjoying, had allowed me to breeze through that book as quickly as I had. My mind was sharp. I didn’t feel like my feet were stuck in the mud anymore, which is how I had always felt while on the meds.
I felt a little hung over from the wine I’d had at Sam’s house last night, but I really didn’t feel all that bad. In fact, she’d been right. The alcohol had done me less harm than good. The rich food she’d served had alleviated my nausea and softened my killer headache. It didn’t make sense, but she knew more about combatting withdrawal symptoms than I did. Operating under the same theory, after finally putting down the guitar at six a.m., I made myself a hearty breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and orange juice. After that, a shower and a shave had me feeling mostly human again.
I had thought of lacing up my running shoes and hitting the streets, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Besides, I only ran to keep my weight down, and in the past two days I had lost five or six pounds, even though I’d had two big meals. I made a mental note to ask Sam if
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