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Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

Sara Gruen

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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Shouldn
Hell
Running
Away
Circus

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I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief-- even the dogs were howling.
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Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
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I look after those who look after me. He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, I also look after those who don't. - Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants)
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I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I want.
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I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.
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I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were up to our eyeballs, and the next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.
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I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.
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I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
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Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
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I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky--same as it always was.
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How is it that everyone on this train has so much alcohol? We always head to Canada at the beginning of the season, she says taking her seat again. Their laws are much more civilized. Cheers.
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I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.
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