I hold my belly ripe with abortion and think about affairs with younger men.

My younger sister's face is glowing ruby, her complexion blush and bronze, emotions popping from underneath layers of makeup. I hold my smile like my glass, in my hand, hard and still against the compulsive quavering I'm afraid would make my chardonnay spill.

This has been a long time coming, I think, quickly sipping the wine but not too quickly--no, lady-quickly, desperations dialed low, bubbling molecules slinking down my elongated swan?s throat. My husband rests his right hand against my thigh, slipping briefly to my privates for a hot second, at which time I turn to him and grit from between my teeth a few forced laughs and a not right now. Touching his face with some force I take away his wine glass and whisper, "Drink your coffee dear."

Marriage, I think. Fuck Marriage. I give it three months.

• Previous
• Home
• Next