By this point, it was far more than a nightly ritual. It had even surpassed commonplace, moving to boring. Her perfectly manicured fingers limply hold a cigarette and she sips a seemingly endless supply of Merlot as she stares, in the dark, out the kitchen window.
Your father told you once that you were his princess
But you don't see the castle
And cannot find your prince
Nothing ever happens on these nights. The phone never rings, baby Gene never wakes wailing. Everything is still. Breathless. Her own personal vacuum.
The things surrounding her that was grateful for, prideful, even, have turned stale and sour. This is such a shame, and she knows it. Her mother would be so disappointed. She has practically everything she's ever dreamed of, had ever been told she wanted. The house in the suburbs. The expensive, fashionable clothes. The influential friends. The handsome, successful husband. Three beautiful children. She is lucky. Blessed. She flicks her cigarette.
So now you've grown a lot
The dresses don't fit right
And daddy's not a hero
He stole your chariot
She crosses her legs, takes a drag, and blows smoke at the ceiling. The wind outside rustles the leaves and she finds herself noticing the silence. The only distraction in the kitchen is the ticking of the Felix the Cat clock bought for Bobby years ago. The linoleum floor is frigid against her bare feet, but the sensation is welcome. Any sensation is welcome.
So here you are in pieces
Trying to prove to us it's real
The softness of your smile
And the lies you want to feel
She hears the car in the driveway. Moments later, Don walks in the door. She glances at him with ice blue eyes and takes another delicate sip. She is tipsy, but doesn't show it. Don passingly kisses the top of her perfect blonde coif, never a hair out of place, and disappears into his study. There is a stench of unfamiliar perfume in his wake. As usual.
Scales beneath your skin
Are showing off today
She turns and glances at the phone. She won't call him again, she knows that. She won't risk her reputation on lust, spite, vengeance, whatever. She'll remain Mrs. Don Draper, with her wine and her cigarettes and her trips to the psychiatrist. Or maybe she will. Maybe he'll take her away from this nihility. Make her feel alive again. But not tonight. It's never tonight, it's always tomorrow night. She'll call him tomorrow night.
There's evil in your heart
And it wants out to play…
So she takes another drink and listens to the clock ticking. Hopefully, another night won't kill her.