by Sebnem E. Sanders
I smell the freshness of your shirt when I bury my face in your chest. A hint of lavender takes me to an old Italian movie, a scene where people hang their laundry on the terrace. We play hide-and-seek between the big white sheets and rub sweaty hands on the cotton fabric.
Who irons your shirts like this? You never mentioned any one. I never asked. Omission is a sin. Lavender and heather won’t make up for it. Today, I ask the question that’s been roaming in my head for a while.
Your gaze drifts away and you mutter, “The one I took vows with.”
I step back. Clench my hands and shout, “Get the hell out of here and don’t come back.”
You look at me with pleading eyes, and linger, unsure.
“Out, now!” I command.
You hesitate, then turn around. Shoulders slumped, you drift…