I’m up again and it’s the same old tune, that clock ticking like a drip in the sink and you know, sometimes I just stare at the ceiling and wonder how I got here, but not in a dramatic way, more like a ‘how many steps did I miss between here and there’ kind of way, and I remember thinking, back when I was hustling every single dime just to keep the lights on and the fridge sorta full, that this life, this proper respectable life, was the finish line, the big prize and I chased it like a madwoman, running on fumes and dreams of not having to choose between a new pair of boots and a grocery run and now I’m here and the boots are fancy and the fridge is always stocked but my insides feel like that empty fridge before payday, just echoes and a faint smell of old cabbage. And every damn formal dinner, every tea with the Ladies Auxiliary or whatever fancy shindig, it’s like watching a play where everyone knows their lines but me and I’m just standing there, smiling politely and nodding at the right times, and it’s all just… beige, you know? Like a plate of mashed potatoes but without the butter or salt, just bland and mushy and the words they use, all those proper words, they kinda float over my head but they don’t land, they don’t stick and I just wanna scream something wild, something that doesn’t fit, like ‘coño’ or ‘bloody hell’ or just start talking about how you gotta scrub grout with bleach and a toothbrush to really get it clean, but I don’t, I just keep smiling, and my husband, bless his heart, he’s so proud, so proud of the picture we make, the respected couple, the pillar of the community and I see it in his eyes, that shine, and I can’t burst that bubble, not when he worked so hard to get here too, but his hard work got him a seat at the table and mine just got me… a perfectly pressed napkin. And sometimes, when everyone’s clinking glasses and talking about investments or some charity gala, I just look down at my hands and they’re clean, manicured, but I can still feel the ghost of dish soap and engine grease on them, from those years I worked two jobs and fixed my own damn car because a mechanic was a luxury and I wonder if anyone else sees it, that faint shimmer of grit under the polish, but no, they just see the ring, the expensive dress, the perfect wife of the perfect man and it’s like I’m a well-oiled machine, doing all the right things, but the engine’s running on empty and there’s no mechanic for this kind of hum, this dull ache that’s not really pain, just… nothing, a quiet hum in my chest that keeps getting louder and louder but no one else seems to hear it and I don’t know what to do with it, or where to put it, or how to even turn it off, but I gotta get some sleep, gotta be up early for the committee meeting, another day, another performance.