A RESET
And a fictional detour
Lately, I’ve been imagining myself standing at the edge of a wide, roaring river. Violent rapids. Hidden undertows. Maybe even a few man-eating piranhas. Trying to work up the nerve to jump in.
I’ve felt this way a lot since my wife’s death eighteen months ago. And even more now, as the countdown begins for my two girls to leave the nest and fly off to college in the fall.
Though my knees are knocking, I’m also excited about this next chapter. But rather than jumping too quickly and losing this precious stretch of time I still have with them, I’ve been quietly preparing. Day by day. Step by step.
I finished the script I hope to produce and have started sharing it with readers.
I spent the last three weekends becoming part of the Civilian Emergency Response Team in my town. A volunteer opportunity that feels like more of a natural fit for me.
I also joined a writing group filled with some seriously talented writers who are already pushing me out of my comfort zone.
But while the urge to jump grows stronger and my patience sometimes wears thin, I also know that sometimes I need to pull back on the reins and let my body and mind recover from everything that’s happened these past two years before eventually diving into those raging waters.
So after a week where I allowed myself to overindulge a bit— numerous opening-day beers and sausages, a weekend of eating out with the girls, and plenty of downtime in front of the TV— I decided to do a reset.
Strip things down to the essentials.
I’m currently attempting a three-and-a-half-day fast. Eighty-four hours. My longest yet. I’ve done 72 hours twice before.
I know what some of you are probably thinking:
“That sounds essentially awful.”
And yes, the hunger pangs and ferocious stomach growls can be unsettling, but there’s also a strange calm that comes with it. When all you want is food, what normally feels urgent suddenly feels. . . less so. Your focus narrows to the basics. What you actually need. What actually matters.
And now, sitting smack dab in the middle of this fast, I realize I don’t really know (or honestly care) what to write about this week. Nothing immediately comes to mind. Except listing everything I want to eat right now.
So instead, I’m sharing a short story I wrote for this new writing group.
The assignment was simple: for seven days, clear your mind and write down the first five words that pop into your head. Then create something inspired by those words.
When the exercise was given, for whatever reason, an image of my wife standing at our kitchen sink appeared in my mind. So I followed it.
The story is fictional. But like most stories, there are traces of truth inside it.
I hope you enjoy.
“Difficult. Rancid. Flowers. Purgatory. Wishing.”
Darren stood in his kitchen, gripping his suitcase. Hoping. Praying. That this would finally trigger a response.
His wife, Rebecca, stood at the sink. Her head half-cocked, turned toward him. The setting sun making a halo through her graying curls. Her bulky, knock-off Lululemon sweatpants already cinched tight for the night. She let the words settle for a second, then turned back to the sink.
Darren knew what that meant.
He shuffled up to the bedroom. Removed his Men’s Warehouse suit and got into his own “I’ve stopped trying” casual attire— gym shorts and one of his many holey concert shirts from shows they used to attend when they were young and fun.
They crossed on the stairs, neither glancing at the other, as she went up to watch TV in bed and he went down to eat dinner alone. As he ate, he flipped through the channels on his 4K ultra-high-definition 96-inch TV until he could find some kind of sporting event that best held his attention.
After a couple of hours of numbing himself, he heard the creaks of the floorboards above and knew it was time. He lugged himself upstairs, where they would brush their teeth together, slip into their pajamas, crawl into bed, and share a dispassionate kiss on the cheek before turning off the lights.
The next day, after another brutal day of filling out meaningless paperwork, inane conversations with coworkers, and a micromanaging boss bent on replacing him with an AI agent, Darren returned home once more to find his wife at the sink as usual, her hands buried in the suds.
He cleared his mind and said the first five words that floated up somewhere deep from his subconscious:
“Breaking. Song. Describe. Dance. Bristle.”
Rebecca turned, took the words in, then went back to the dishes. Darren slinked off to perform his lonely solo routine.
It all started innocently enough.
One night after a rare date night, Rebecca was slamming cabinet doors in the kitchen. Darren knew something was wrong. Most likely something he’d done. He knew this game and had grown somewhat bored with it.
Darren would ask, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” would be her reply. And then she’d proceed to go around the house slamming any doors, cabinets, and drawers she came across.
Darren would follow her and keep asking what was wrong until Rebecca would eventually blurt out, “You should know why I am upset.”
He didn’t. Never. Darren wasn’t a very perceptive person.
He would then have to guess what he did or beg relentlessly until she spat it out, which usually led to an argument that dragged on for hours until they located some small shred of common ground and both promised to do better. After that, if Darren appeared sufficiently repentant, they would have sex, and the next day they would return to their peaceful, albeit inconsequential, existence together.
But on that night, after their date night, Darren thought he would be cute.
So when she said, “You should know why I am upset,” Darren said the first five words that came to his mind:
“Whimsical. Mess. Functional. Appreciate. Posture.”
Then he strode off.
He thought maybe after a day or two she would speak. A mention about the weather? A sigh about her day? A groan about what to eat for dinner? But nothing. Not even a peep.
Darren decided he wasn’t going to cave this time. No more begging. Pleading. Cajoling. He was taking a stand.
So every day after he came home from work, he would just say the first five words that popped into his brain:
“Barter. Didgeridoo. Draining. Absolute. Therapy.”
And she never responded…
“Trident. Applesauce. Tummy. Tropical. Sadist.”
Day after day…
“Hourglass. Putrid. Happenstance. Dismal. Content.”
Week after week…
“Calculated. Hegemony. Virtual. Artifice. Temptation.”
For months on end.
But after an especially trying day at work, where his boss gathered every male employee outside the men’s bathroom and proceeded to berate them for an hour because someone’s aim had left a tiny pool of urine on the floor, the five words that came to Darren that night were:
“Fuck. Shit. Frustrated. Torture. Bitch.”
Rebecca did her half turn. Took it in. But instead of turning back to the sink, she turned all the way around to face him. She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms,
“Finally, you say something you actually mean.”
There was no lonely dinner that night. No sitting in front of the 4K ultra-high definition 96-inch TV. They never brushed their teeth.
They just bickered. Volleying vile recriminations back and forth. For hours on end. Escalating until they finally squared off, nose-to-nose, panting like wild dogs. Barely able to contain their rage.
And that’s when they kissed.
Not their usual dispassionate peck on the cheek, but a full-throttle, suck-your-face-off kind of kiss.
Darren tore off her knock-off Lululemon sweats. Rebecca ripped off his Men’s Warehouse suit. All those months of stored-up bitterness were released into a wild tryst.
Afterward, as they lay there— not in their pajamas —Darren turned to her and asked,
“So?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting her mind wander, then spoke the first five words that came clear:
“Laundry. Tremble. Honest. Gravity. Again.”
Oh, by the way, I actually did make it to the end— 84 hours. And it was essentially awful for those last 12 hours. But now with a full belly, I feel reset and ready to start the trek forward once more. Day by day. Step by step.
Read. Cool. Story. Point. Break.
Love this story. Love that you’re part of our writers group. Your work continues to bowl me over, blow me away, and make me occasionally envious, all the things good writing is supposed to do. Keep it up, my friend. And no beers on an empty stomach!