Review. A formal assessment or examination with the possibility or intention of making change if necessary. The couch, soft and yielding, my body imprinting it over and again, like the thumbprint you press onto your new phone so it remembers your touch.
I will never remember his touch.
Evaluation. The making of a judgment about the amount,
number, or value of something; assessment.
Outside: smoke dangling like a lethal weeping willow. Crying
for me. Crying for us.
On the other side of the wall my husband is bathing our son.
He’s playing Spotify. Queen. The Show Must Go On. I lie, listening to their
voices braid together, knowing I am an asshole. How many times foregone for a text
message, even those that never arrived? How many lies told in escapism’s name?
Guilt. The fact of having committed a specified or
implied offense or crime.
I cannot find it. I turn over the cushions. Even the change
eludes me.
*
We’re texting long after midnight the first time he tells me
I should leave my marriage.
I laugh. It’s deeper than my normal cadence, secret, in a
way of itself a lie. My husband on his side, snoring mildly behind my back.
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