I Spy

I have the house to myself this weekend.

A few minutes ago the doorbell rang.  I knew who it was: a neighbor-girl bringing change for a twenty, for a tchotchke I bought in support of some school program.

But I didn't answer.

Instead, I set down the book I was reading and lowered myself silently to the carpet.  Then I inched along the floor on my stomach until I could see around the edge of the sofa.  The girl's pink sweater fizzled across the patterned glass.  Her dark hair bobbed as she rocked in place, waiting.

I held myself still.  Frozen.  Breath slowed to the dimmest of oxygen intake.  I was a spy.

After all, why just write about the stuff?  Why not actually live it every once and a while?

Afraid

I think I am afraid to come here.

Like the mere act of opening Blogger impresses guilt upon me.  A reminder that I'm not writing.  A glimpse of a story unfinished.

So I avoid.  It's still a link on my bookmarks bar--glaring at me every time I open Google Chrome.

Someday I will just delete it.  Then the guilt will bury itself a level deeper.

And I will pretend to forget.