I
pop a Klonopin.
“They
don’t even work for you,” he says. We’re
both still naked, but it feels like such a long time ago since we were having
sex. The stitch is fading slowly, leaving remnants of pain like a vapor trail
along my torso.
“You
heard of a placebo?”
Sixteen
years together and I sometimes still can’t tell whether we’re bantering or
bickering, or if there’s even a difference. Marriage is a dance of pushing the
envelope back and forth between one another. Sometimes I just think we should
tear the damn thing to pieces and get it over with.
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