Love shifts over time. Stretches and wiggles, a toddler moving her lengthening limbs. Your marriage, as much a fact of your life as the breath that enters and exits the lungs. Your husband, the other half of your brain. Lately you’ve glanced at old pictures, set them aside. That knife in your throat, it comes and goes.
Nearly two decades
you’ve known each other. Together the great majority of that time. Married
nearly a decade. Parents. With each step forward a little bit of the sheen rubs
more smoothly. It glows deeper but duller. Polish takes energy, effort. You
barely sleep.
You feel someone at
your elbow: barista politely kicking you out. Closing time. You haven’t looked
at your phone in hours. Four. It’s four o’clock. Last ones to leave. The room
is a vortex and you are its nexus.
You walk outside,
blinking. It is not new to you, this earth. The sun stings your eyes. The wind
chaps your face. Why does it all seem so alien?
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