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bump yours in the grocery store. You curse all of the gin joints that you ran into
the woman here and now. You are buying things to prepare to move on, baking
cupcakes for your fiancee's bridal shower, a hand basket hanging from your wrist,
the black plastic contrasting your flour-stained, blue oxford cuffs, filled with the
palest pink food coloring and sugary pearls. When you see the brown hair of the
screaming toddler in the cart and for a second imagine that it was curled and light
like yours, you manage to look into her green eyes and see your former home, built
with rotted wood but still enough to keep you warm.
When you lean down, bowed back again, to kiss her forehead after stilted
conversation. When you mentioned your new life, because it was new to her, even
though you carried pieces of her with you. When the woman angles upwards, to
capture your familiar planes in hers and you refuse. When you realized you said
no, to that woman. When you acknowledge it was not out of ftdelity or upcoming
vows. When you remember yourself.
