by Candi Bartlett | 08/31/2020
I miss getting tattoos. I miss shooting the shit with everyone in the shop while I wait because I’m definitely going to wait. I miss being on tattoo artist time. I miss sharing beverages with my friends. It’s just alcohol in a glass but it’s different than my alcohol in a glass and probably delicious. It definitely tastes just a little bit like all of us. I don’t care if that’s gross. I miss being gross with my friends. I miss unexpectedly being out all night. The stupid walking and the summer induced sweaty panties and disgusting bra. No shit, I miss fun night out swamp ass. I miss leisurely shopping. Browsing for nothing in particular, slowly drinking my coffee while looking at books I’m not going to buy, watching people looking at books they’re not going to buy. I miss tripping over the kid reading on the floor in the fantasy section. I miss knowing damn well I’m leaving with that book. And that one. For as lost as I feel in my house, or as blurred as the days get, I do not miss dreading traffic in the morning. I don’t miss the never-satisfied rush-rush feeling in my chest, the gotta get there anxiety. I miss having places to be. When we move to the next phase of human stuff, after this thing but before the next one, I imagine I’ll miss the quiet. I’ll miss spending endless days with the man I love, not having anywhere to be but with each other. I’ll miss feeling satisfied at the end of the day, even though my physical self went nowhere and did no rushing. I miss moving around. I hope I remember what it feels like to be still.
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