Pearl, wishing to distance herself from the weight that has settled on to her chest and dug its grasping talons into her feebly-beating heart, is referring to herself in the third person today.
It keeps the lump in her throat from choking her altogether.
Because she misses the life she thought she had.
And she misses the one that she thought was coming.
She wants it back. Today. She wants to answer the phone to someone who loves her, someone who tells her a dirty joke, knowing the smile she will smile. She wants to pass in front of a mirror, point at herself and murmur “Hey there, beautiful”. She wants to be swaddled tightly and rocked, reminded that everything will work out.
That everything will be okay.
She stands in the corner office, 48 floors up, and watches the two hawks that live atop the building wheel and circle in the slate-colored sky. Wings barely moving, they turn, time and again, facing each other, turning away.
She wants to be in the sky.
She wants to feel light again.
She wants to be surrounded by laughing, happy people.
And in that, she will finally get her wish.
She's having sushi with Sarah tonight. And changing her life -- and her address -- by moving into her place on Saturday.
Sometimes, you just gotta keep moving. And that’s what I’m going to do today: I’m gonna just keep moving.