I wear want-me red with matching stilettos and the bracelet he brought from Venezuela, the earrings received for a birthday meant to echo my crystalline eyes which must not blur with tears. I caress his wrist (be supportive yet casual), inhale cologne and light perspiration upon his return from another adventure chauffeured to outposts in company cars. Staying home in Sausilito was thoroughly engaging – that new shellac hobby with plastic and trillium, an attempt to prove evenings were plump flying solo – but that charade now a shambles as I (gently) try to illustrate how well I belong on his sofa, or serving enchiladas to his chummy coworkers, coming home to his kitchen, a bouquet in my arms.
I want to trade drinks-&-a-show-with-best-foot-forwards for waffles on the griddle after church Sunday mornings, and a duet of blue jeans clipped to the line even as he insists I love when we meet; what more could you ask for? which translated means This is good as it gets leaving me curious how he spends most of his nights, the deflation when Thursdays don’t bring weekend invites, the dread I will hear I have something to tell you every time we place our order and the waitress disappears.
