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Once inside my home, I have to purposely remind myself to hang my keys on the key hook I installed by my door. If I don’t, there’s a good chance I’ll leave without them, and that’s if I don’t lose them first. No keys means I won’t be able to lock my house. Not a good idea with some unknown burglar creeping around and—with that thought—I purposely lock my front door behind me before kicking off my shoes.
My foot’s okay. I detour to my downstairs bathroom to check it out, then do my business since I prefer not to use the library’s toilet if I don’t have to. After changing from my work clothes to a comfy pair of sweats, I put on my favorite pair of memory foam slippers before going to the kitchen to figure out what the hell I’m going to eat for dinner today.
That’s the one downside to living on my own. As the only grown-up here, I’m responsible for all of my meals. It’s easier when I have a partner—since I usually ask them to take on the mental load of dinner—but when I’m single? That’s on me.
And I can only have so much take-out before my local delivery people know me by name and my repeated order du jour…
I’m not in the mood to cook today so I rely on one of my safe foods I keep around for nights like these. When I’m not hyperfixating on one particular meal—like how, last week, I ate barbecue chicken pizza four nights in a row—I fall back on the comfort foods that are quick, easy, and always taste good.
Tonight it’s grilled cheese sandwiches and canned soup, and I’m ready to go in less than ten.
Rather than sit at my small, circular kitchen table by myself, I set up a tray table in the living room and eat my dinner in front of the TV.
I’ve recently splurged for a new streaming service. They’re too pricy to have more than one at a time, and after I canceled my Netflix at the beginning of the summer, I decided to try out the Disney one until I got bored with it. I still haven’t, and with Halloween coming up, I figure I’ll watch all of the specials it has, plus I’ve always been a sucker for the old Disney classics.
I’ve been working my way through their repertoire of animated movies. For a few weeks in August, I repeatedly watched the 1953 version ofPeter Panbefore trading it off for my old DVD of the 2003 film with the same name;that one became my sleepy-time show, the same movie I put on before bed so that I can listen to something as I doze off.When I was over everything Peter, I enjoyed watchingBeauty and the Beastfor a few days, then quickly moved on toAlice in Wonderland,The Little Wonderland, andThe Black Cauldron, which was kinda weird.
Yesterday, I curled up under my blanket and put onMary Poppinswith Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke. That was a good one, but when the app suggested that, if I likeMary Poppins, I’d likeBedknobs and Broomsticks, I threw that one on today.
It was good, but sometime around Portobello Road, I decided I was ready to go to bed. Yawning, I click off the downstairs television, turn off the lights, and head upstairs.
Just because I was ready to cozy up in my bed, it didn’t mean I was going straight to sleep. I have a full stack of books on the shelf next to my bed, each one in a varying state of being read. Since it’s October, I went all in on my spooky season reads. I’m halfway done with a witch romcom that’s as spicy as it is adorable, and that’s the one I reach for tonight.
I’m still a couple of chapters away from the climax—though the hero and heroine have alreadyclimaxeda few times already—when I slip my bookmark back into place, then trade the book for my remote.
I can’t fall asleep when it’s quiet. This is where my sleepy-time show comes into play. I need the sound of the television running, but it can’t be something I’m not innately familiar with otherwise I’ll stay up to watch it.
Tonight’s anotherPeter Pannight, courtesy of the ancient DVD player I keep connected to the even more ancient TV in my bedroom. Knowing me, I’ll conk out before he goes searching for his shadow… except, right around the time that Mr. Darling is being a dickhead to Nana, my dozing brain suddenly wakes up as I ask myself:did you lock the door?
I want to say that I did. I distinctly remember telling myself that I needed to… but do you think I went through with it? I… I can’t recall.
Shit.
There goes any hope of falling right asleep. If I don’t go downstairs and double-check, I’ll just lie in my bed and convince myself that I didn’t… and that I basically hung anOPENsign on my front door for any prospective burglars.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I won’t, either. And though I’m cozy and would much rather stay under my covers, I scowl and toss them away from me.
Slipping my feet back into my slippers, I huff as I start for the stairs. Real quick, I tell myself. I’ll just go double-check the door, call myself an idiot whether it’s locked or not, then be back in bed before Wendy and the boys are in Neverland.
Out of habit, I turn on the lightswitch when I reach the downstairs. The brightness makes me wince, but I shuffle across the floor quickly.
A quick tug on the door reveals that Ididlock it.
Well, at least I made sure of it.
That done, I have every intention of going back upstairs—until I realize that I’m pretty freaking thirsty. That’s what you get when you eat canned soup, I guess. That amount of sodium is a killer.
Water. I’ll get a glass of water from the kitchen, pee again before I go back to my room, and then I’ll finally—finally—go to sleep.
And I one hundred percent meant that, too—until I walk into the kitchen and do a double-take.
What the…
Completely forgetting about my thirst, I blink a couple of times to make sure that I’m actually seeing what IthinkI’m seeing. But I am, and when I pick the heavy, leather-bound book up from the middle of my kitchen table, I gape at it.
Just in case, I quickly turn the pages until I reach that strange title.
Grimoire du Sombra.
