Monday

I woke up unable to remember any dreams. But somewhere in my head was the thought that I had to find a screw for Rachel. A silly thought, I know, but I went down to the basement, to Logan’s workbench. He keeps things very neat. I admire that about him. I try to be neat, but too often I’m messy. If it were my workbench everything would be a jumble. On the edge of the shelf above the workbench a number tools fit neatly into clips. There is a screwdriver with an orange handle. I pull it out of the clip. It’s so clever, the way the clip holds it and releases it. I push the screwdriver back into the clip. Success! I take it out again. Now to find a screw. There is a cabinet next to the workbench, and inside are some boxes with nails and screws. I open one of the boxes and remove a screw. I thought it would be shiny but it’s dull. I haven’t turned on the workbench lamp, only the light at the foot of the stairs, so I take the screw and the screwdriver to the stairs. I don’t know why I don’t just turn on the workbench light. Oh, now I know, it’s because I have both hands full, one hand holding the screwdriver, the other holding the screw. I know I could have just put either the screw or the screwdriver on the workbench and turned on the light, but sometimes my thoughts are not logical. Not rational. Not well ordered. Anyway, while walking to the stairs the screw falls from my hand. It makes a tiny sound when it hits the cement floor. Not quite a metallic click. Tick. Then several smaller ticks. Then nothing. I squat down to see if I can find it. There it is.

I’m momentarily so happy that I’ve found the screw. Isn’t it strange how trivial things can make me happy? Or sad. Am I really planning on giving this screwdriver to Rachel? Will Logan miss it? Surely he would not notice a missing screw. While I’m considering these deeply philosophical questions, ha ha, I notice that the point of the screwdriver won’t fit in the notch on the head of the screw. I think there’s a name for this type of screwdriver. I touch the tip of the screwdriver to the tip of my nipple. I don’t know why I do this. The touch sends a small jolt of pleasure through my body. I do a few more touches. More little jolts of pleasure. I think about touching the tip of the screwdriver to my clit. I think about pushing the handle into my cunt. I think that if I’m going to do that, I should probably wash the screwdriver first. I pick up the screw and take it and the screwdriver upstairs.

But then there’s an email from Logan. The first concert went well. He’s pleased. I’m pleased. I write him a long answering email, mostly about how proud of him I am and how much I love him and also about my motor scooter daydream. I take a shower. I dress for work. I’m almost out the door when I remember the screwdriver and screw, and I put them in my purse. Now it’s lunch break and so far Rachel has not shown up. If she does come, I have no idea whether I’ll actually give her the screw or the screwdriver or both.

Night now. Rachel didn’t show up so I didn’t give her the screw or the screwdriver. I hope she’s okay. I read over what I wrote before. I had to laugh at one of my mistakes. I wrote “Anyway, while walking to the stairs the screw falls from my hand.” So the screw was walking to the stairs. Mrs. Mac would mark me down a grade for that.