silly girl who wrangled her hh’s elbow away from the computer as he locked in a 7 day reservation.
one week?!??! so looooooooong?!?! baby i’ll never survive.
body thrown against the floor, fists and feet pounding into the hardwood, tantruming out a compromise of 4 days instead.
hh got his seven days. i got a bruised tibia.
he’s back at the computer again, i’m a cricket on his shoulder hoping he’ll mistake a button or so, and denature us into costa rican citizens.
i can feel the despondent three year old awaken in my belly as hh gets that suitcase out for us to pack.
the 34 year old is starts to plot another spectacle (maybe public this time) where i slobber & fit my displeasure at the nearing departure.
this longing to stay away is new for me. i’m sure delta is surprised they haven’t heard from me this time trying to arrange an earlier flight home.
those first words from our driver, “costa rica, here. we don’t have a military,” induced my first non-shallow breath for months. i’m somewhere where i don’t need protection. i can be loving and nice and trusting. no monsters.
from then on my week was baked in thick turquoise and gold. sleep so deep, screened porch furniture would change places during the night’s storms, but not a hair on my head would be unmoved from when i laid it down ten hours earlier. sometimes eleven,
hh. well our meals were more like tournaments of laughter. we start with the giggles. move into snorts, have a little guffaw with tea, and then end in full on bend over our chairs soundless hyena hysteria. no wonder we always got the table outside.
adios costa rica. hola california.
