She longed for the time when a story or two of fairytales still worked.
Now, she keeps a bottle of Russian Standard right under her neck pillow and sets alarms that go off six times in an hour. It allows her to ease into the next morning and gives her a sufficient knock on the head on some nights.
It must be the tough edges and the thick glass.It bruises but will break eventually.
She still hasn’t lost faith in counting sheep. Or computing tax returns to put her out.
Numbers grow on you, just as foie gras or wine age and its accompanying price tags would.
Except that at some point it all just won’t add up: the age, the alcohol content, the remaining balance, the outstanding credit, the insignificant exes, the quantitative assessments, the waistlines, the Facebook notifications, the retweets, the Instagram likes, the nutrition information, and the numbers on the digital clock.
We all count on it but none of it actually would.
Pour yourself another glass, read another fairytale,
rewrite the ending just as you know you should.