If I came with a warning label, it would say: Beware of quiet Lauren. Beware of unnervingly still, pensive Lauren. Beware of all the things right below the surface that are trying to get out. Beware of sinister resignation. Beware of the sticky afternoon and the cool of twilight.
Right now I am calm. Quiet. But not serene. Not at all caught in a reverie.
When the dusk has brought the children indoors for the night, I will be sitting outside on the stoop, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a bottle of wine and I will be quiet. Unsettlingly so.
I will be thinking about playing the saddest songs in the world.
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