Free I am HER... by Sarah Ann Walker

Please don't call...  Shit! My phone starts ringing.  My phone even sounds louder when its Z calling to yell at me.  Ignore it.  IGNORE IT!
  Five minutes later, my phone stops ringing and I'm totally stressed out.  What the hell is going on in my life?  I can't stand all this drama.  Who does he think he is, anyway?  He can’t tell me what to do.  Yeah, but everyone else tells me what to do, why can’t he?  Dammit.
     
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      Grabbing a glass of ice water, and making a turkey sandwich, I suddenly realize I haven't made a 'proper' dinner for Marcus.  Dammit.   What looks elaborate, but is quick and easy?  What looks good, but can be prepared in half an hour?  What can I make?  I can think of nothing.  Oh!  I have lasagna in the freezer but I'll have to thaw it in the microwave first which will make it gross, but what else can I do?
  Throwing the lasagna in the microwave to defrost, I feel all stressed again.  It's like the potential for soggy lasagna will determine if I have a panic-attack or something.  Why does a lasagna have this much influence over my life?  Why am I giving a lasagna this much power over me?  Christ!   I AM crazy!
  Twenty minutes later, the nearly defrosted lasagna is in the oven for an hour and a half.  That brings me to 7:30.  Marcus should be arriving home around 7:30, and it’ll look like I planned his dinner properly, at exactly the proper time.
      BUT WHAT ABOUT THE STUFF?!  Argh…  
  Grabbing a package of ground beef from the freezer, I cut up as many small pieces as I can before dumping it down the garberator and leave the empty package face up in the trash can.  From the fridge I pull out and also empty 2 jars of my homemade sauce down the sink, and rinse and line up the jars beside the sink to dry.  Brick of Mozzarella Cheese?  Um.   Grabbing it from the cheese drawer, I hide it behind the vegetables in the crisper drawer.  Ricotta?  Hidden behind the pickles.  Spices?  He'll never know.  Does Marcus even know where I keep all the spices and seasonings?  I doubt it.  Noodles?  Opening a box of lasagna noodles, I smash them into smaller pieces, hide them in a brown lunch bag, and push them low in the garbage with the empty ground beef package back on top.  Crushing the box of lasagna, I make sure it’s on the top of the recycling bin in the pantry. 
  There! Ha!   Marcus will never know I didn't make it today.  God, my hands are shaking.  I was in such a rush to prepare  my already prepared lasagna; I hadn't noticed that I've been holding my breath for hours it seems.  Marcus will never know though, so I'm safe from disappointing anyone tonight.
 
      T rying to calm my nerves, I head back to my desk in the sunroom.  There are 6 new emails:
- 1 email from Mr. Wallace in Washington, with an amendment.
- 1 email from Mr. King in Sarasota.
- 2 emails from Kayla.
- 2 from Mr. Zinfandel timed in the last 45 minutes.
 
      I don't want to read them, I really don't.  I can't handle any more of this...  SHIT!  I have to.  Opening the first email...
    
    ______________________ __________
    From:  Z. Zinfandel
    Subject:  I’m disappointed
    Thursday, May 26
    5:19pm
    I am very disappointed in you, Sweetheart.
That was very rude.
I thought I made myself perfectly clear.   I will not tolerate rudeness.
Do not hang up on me.  Speak to me.
If I frighten you, or you feel uncomfortable, please say so.
I want to know what you’re thinking.
I would really like to know what you’re feeling, as well.

I will give you a little time to gather your thoughts.
I am very aware of your incessant need to feel 'in control' of yourself, but try to understand that it is NOT my goal to undermine your need for control.
Please do not push away my concern and affections... You will only hurt yourself further.
Yours patiently,
Z