I worry. I worry that every man who left me went because of the doors I open after too much wine. I have never owned much, and I’ve never stayed around long, and I never tell anyone I’m going. I, too, tremble a tendency toward chaos, and I fear I’m living a life based on third-drink decisions. I write myself as a drunk and disheveled woman because it’s the only way I know how to keep her at bay. So yes, I use words to avoid my life. But it’s the opposite of hiding.
To be honest I wasn’t even really watching the movie. It was one of those ones they call screwball comedies, where people mislead and ill-treat each other in the most shocking and baffling ways possible, then forgive and forget about it because they happen to like the look of each other. Only they call it falling in love. Those movies are the equivalent of supernatural thrillers for me — if I watched them too closely, I’d shriek uncontrollably. So mainly I was just sitting.