I Shut Down and Die Each Night

I shut down and die each night. I do not want to entertain anyone. I do not want to hear my name. I do not want to fix supper. I shut down and die each night. Spending my evening in my zippered zebra pajamas And fluffy socks that do not have to match. I pick up the remote and two I-pads and I sit in a stupor Dead as the wall, the floor, the carpet, anything in the room. I die the second I jump into my pajamas. My phone goes off, and I am incognito, inaccessible, and dead. My husband annoys me sometimes. "Someone is calling you." He used to answer my phone. He has learned. This is a dumb thing to do. I will not be coaxed, coerced, or guilt-ed into anything I do Not want to do. I am dead, in my Lazy-Girl chair, clicking aimlessly through TV shows I am not watching. I am dead to you, and me, and him and everyone else. I die every night. It is how I can face the next day at work.