23/11/2017-28/11/2017

23/11/2017

He called me asking where I was.

I am at the Langham. It isn’t too far away and I’m finally at peace. The only issue I have is that I forgot to put my Vitamin C serum in my suitcase. Stupid thing was still in the fridge. Either way, the fact that he even knows I’m not there means that he came home. He asked me why I wasn’t there, an ordinary question any spouse would ask, but hearing it from him… it pissed me off. So I asked him why he wasn’t home on the days he wasn’t. On the 11th, the 21st. “Edwynn, what is going on? It was work. I was working.” This man. Aha, this man. How do I begin to describe the feeling that exploded in my chest when I heard him say that to me? Hot and burning and almost blinding. Almost. Most professors go back home to their families at the end of the day. They know not to dedicate every ounce of their being into their work, thus neglecting their families. Some instances mean that you must dedicate more hours than one would like to their work, but why, Viktor’s circumstances must be incredibly special! Where does he even stay in those nights that he is not home? Most other scientists will return home even if it’s late, I’d wager. Come home at midnight, kiss their husbands and wives on the cheek as they sleep and join them. But. Not. Him.

So I simply told him that I am not home because I do not particularly want to be there right now, just as he doesn’t particularly want to ever be there. He fell silent there, and I could tell that he was angry. He was irritated. He was irritated at my attitude no doubt, and it made me laugh. And so, with a curt goodbye, he hung up.

I felt great for a moment. Strangely triumphant. But it was only for a moment. You can only sit in the victory of being petty and rebellious for so long when the issue at hand seems impossible to solve. So now I’m heading to the bar. Surely this hotel would have an excellent selection of alcohol, wouldn’t they?

24/11/2017

I fucking hate hangovers.

28/11/2017

Came home today because I can’t stay out forever, try as I might. My coach was a little annoyed because I’ve been hungover twice the past few days but I don’t know what the issue is. I complete my workouts and did great during sparring. The one good thing about being back is going to the patio and getting some basil leaves for cooking, but when I went out there at noon, I found myself sitting and smoking another cig and scrolling on my phone. I have a private Instagram that only family and friends have access to. Most of the pictures are gifts I got for him and some treats I got myself, flowers when they bloomed, good wines I found when I was on business trips, group pictures with some of our friends, some cute kitten I saw when out and about. It pissed me off. I don’t know why, but I felt so old looking at it. I’m not old. I’m 30 years old, turning 31 soon. But my 20s are all gone and what have I got to show for it? A marriage on the rocks? Well, no… actually I have a lot. A staggering net worth, for one. Thank god for that I suppose. Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is that I made a new public instagram and tried to take a selfie for it, and was reminded of the grey hairs sprouting from my temples.

I never really forgot about them, but I was able to ignore them. Put them aside because they didn’t really matter. And it was true. There were things far more important occupying my time an energy, but that’s not the case anymore. Now I have nothing but time and energy, and the silver at my temples are all that matter right now. Looking at myself on the screen, staring at them. I couldn’t take the selfie. My throat felt like it was burning, and I had to take a moment. Take a long drag of my cigarette, then tell my stupid eyes to stop stinging. I’m 30, for fuck’s sake. I’m only 30.