spending a Saturday

I had a nightmare last night that there were sharp knives cutting across my skin and I couldn't fast forward quickly enough to the end where I woke up. But then I did, heart racing and uneasy, and I was surprised that it was morning already--that the sun was bright and warm and thirty minutes on the deck made the sweat collect between my breasts and in the crooks of my elbows. Had lunch and tea among floral prints and lace, my knee perpendicular to the knee of the wrong-handed boy I love, completely at ease. And there was soccer this afternoon--pumping my fist and biting my nails. I do get involved. I would. The game ended and I have been draining ever since, the energy and caffeine and clearheadedness seeping away. I felt for a while today that I could speedwalk to my parents' house and back and I almost think I could have, but now I've lost that temptation and all the others that would take me outside or to a public space. I am muzzy and soft and have had too many cookies today, I think. There's part of me that wants nothing more than to cut my day off right now. No more. I'm done. It was good, but I've spent all the day's confidence and am left with not much more than hot eyes and a head drooping to the side. Done. Let's crawl into bed and just see how long until I'm dreaming again.