The Television Ambush

July thirty-first. I had no particular plans for this evening and I was very committed to that fact. I made tea. I sat down. I had a vague sense that I should find something to watch, not as an event, just as weather in the background while I existed on the couch. Simone had mentioned Fleabag at the gym maybe three weeks ago. I'd filed it under 'probably yes, eventually' and then immediately not thought about it again.

I found it. I pressed play mostly because there was nothing in the way.

one episode, she said

Twenty-four minutes later I was sitting in the exact same position I'd started in, which almost never happens to me, and I was also starting the second episode without negotiating it with myself first. That's the tell. Not that I liked it, I knew I liked it within about four minutes, but that I moved to the next one the way you move to the next room when you're looking for something. Without deciding to.

three episodes past the point of no return

The lamp had been off for a while before I noticed. The mug of tea I'd made at the beginning went cold on the side table. At some point the couch throw migrated from the armrest to fully around my shoulders, which means my body made a commitment my brain had been too distracted to formally acknowledge. I finished both series by midnight. I want to talk about it and also I'm not ready to talk about it. The second season finale did something to the air in my apartment and I'm still just, sitting with it.

I don't know how to write about it yet. That's the lag, I know. But for the record: July thirty-first, approximately eight forty-five in the evening, I sat down to watch one episode and the couch won. I'm not even a little mad about it.