He thinks very little of me, of little me. The worst catch--symbiotic drain. I think of hosts and parasites and wonder why there has to be a difference.
"Not tonight, dear."
The Caronlinas, the temperate climate. I wasn't expecting it to be this cold. I packed just one pair of jeans, a dress that I had dyed myself (because the original color washed me out), tattered canvas shoes. He grips the steering wheel and his protruding knuckles stretch his skin. Years of finger play. Minstrelsy.
Not. Tonight. Dear.
My unhappiness cries wolves from the woods; they peek from behind trunks and limbs, peering me with familiar eyes before returning to the hunt. I never expected to see gray in these parts. I never expect. He said my curse is that I'm underwhelmed by everything.
Not. Tonight.
My soles have been walked bald. Stripped of practicality, they slip along the fibers of the floor mat. Nothing is comfortable. I'm not pragmatic like he is. I can't color within the lines and he pointed that out once, years and years ago, when I stayed home sick and colored pages of thick black lines for him. Because I missed him. He pointed that out.
Dear. Not.
What's not? What not is there that takes the place of a
Tonight. Dear.
Of a foggy windshield: humid without; chilly within.
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