He

 

Picture-perfect sundial, spinning on a curve, away from the porch light, not catching time the way I want it to. Such a useless present from Mom on my 28th birthday.

He had bought me a silver necklace and the pajama set I’m wearing. I’m 30 now.

I pick up the sundial and spin it again. Glowing amber and blue, so subtle, the precursor to sunrise, begins to illuminate my surroundings. The haze hangs lovingly.

He said he would get the car tuned up for our upcoming road trip to Bill and Dessie’s wedding.

The sun is now peaking over the horizon of suburbia, glittering not only the grass, but windows of homes and cars, hurting my eyes as I shield my face.

I saw her name in his phone on Wednesday.

More minutes pass, slow and painful. The dichotomy of the neighbourhood waking up and I having not yet slept, pangs brutally in my temples and chest.

He stopped telling me he loved me.

The birds are snapping up the worms protruding from our green, liquid-dusted lawn. How cruel an outwardly beautiful life can be.

He said she was just a friend, just an intern at the office.

Hunger rumbles in my stomach but is quickly replaced with sickness. Replaced.

He went to a work function last night where there was fine dining, cocktail dresses, champagne, and power-point presentations.

Ms. Mary steps outside in her fuzzy, pink robe to retrieve her paper. She waves to me. I wave back and for some reason – this innocent transaction produces tears from my insignificant skull. I don’t allow these tears to fall, because that would make it real.

He didn’t come home last night.

 

 

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