Page 57 of Our Hearts Knew Better

I winced when he touched my cheek, my wounds now in my skin, that I realized was still wet.

“It’s too early for the train, but get in, we’ll drive,” he said, with a tug on my hand before letting me go to round the car again.

I stared down at my fingers as I curled them into my palm, then I shook them free as I climbed into the car with Adam.

“Ready to run?” he asked with his smirk, and I managed a nod, the smallest lift in my lips as he pressed the gas.

I had a third world in Adam.

I was ready to run.

PART TWO

THIS SUMMER

One More Time

Summer

I wake up tired, curled to the right, always on the couch.

The missing buttons of the cushion are always the first thing I see, still opening my eyes, still facing the world.

It’s the weekend, so I can close my eyes again, uncurl to my back. Shift to my left. Shift to my stomach. Repeat the spin until something I can’t pinpoint gets me off the couch.

I always get off the couch, never knowing when or if the day will come when I don’t.

I sit a moment, several moments, for several breaths, reacclimating to another day, to the same day, smoothing my hair out of my face to be able to breathe the sad, stale air better.

I still straighten my curls. I still take the time to shower. I still take the time to make my face into something presentable. I still put food in my body.

I still move through the parts of my life that keep moving, never knowing when or if the day will come when I’m not.

Get up.

My own push is becoming harder to listen to, but once I’m standing and swiping up and into my phone, I see a text from the thing that would get me off the couch if I didn’t myself.

Get the squash. I’m on my way.

My best friend is a bigger foodie than I am. I think she only keeps me around for my cooking skills. Ha. Ha. Guess I can feed someone who appreciates the effort.

She’s not a Clara, but sheisa Clarissa. And though Clara could be a nickname for her actual name, call heranynickname and get wrecked, as she warned me.

And either she’s better than I am at getting someone out of bed or I’m just too stubborn to keep anything covered but my dark circles.

I bruised the hell out of my tailbone two years ago, when I was play chasing Ferguson, our cat of just one year before he died, and slipped and went down hard. It hurt to walk or sit or bend in any kind of way, but no pain in my ass kept me still.

Why do I have to be so stubborn?

Or just not well with idle time. Puts me in my head and I’ve spent years trying to stay out of it.

I move through the morning, that’s actually the afternoon, doing the washing, the clothing, the brushing, the straightening, wishing I could wash out my brain.

My socks scuff through the vacant kitchen and I make my favorite coffee, a momentary joy, watching the brown liquid trickle quick and easy from the Keurig.

I swallow hot sips leaned into the mini island, relishing the burn as it passes through my chest, a momentary warmth over my heart.

I sip and stare at the reflection of the shadow version of myself staring back through the dulled shine in the marble.

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