Conversations, truth or fiction.

I hear the bathroom fan. It’s the first thing my mind gives focus to. This house is always so damn quiet, this neighborhood.

I’m tired.

Drained would be more accurate.

You’re sound asleep. It makes me envious.

The bathroom lies a few feet from us, but I still don’t get out of bed. Like usual, somewhere in our slumber, our bodies have become intertwined and it would be rude to wake you.

Rude? I think about the ridiculousness of my own thoughts. I anger myself, and with a shove I scrape your arm from my chest. You stir. I walk over to the bathroom, open the cabinet, take two pills from the row of orange containers and drink them down with the tap.

Your voice is hoarse, “Are you still mad?”

I feel much more naked in the daylight. “No.”

You sit half way up. You’re never embarrassed. Never shy. Why?

I snag one of your button ups from the closet and seal it around me.

“I don’t think we should go out drinking for a while.”

“Yeah, no shit.” I say a little harsher than I’d thought.

Your eyebrows rise. You realize I’m still upset, so you back pedal.

“What I mean is…until you’re…we’re healed of all of this…”

My lips curl into a scoff, “Healed? Do you really think that healed is a possibility?”

“I don’t know.” Fatigue colors you pale.

You’d run your fingers through your hair at this point if you weren’t bald, instead you rub the nape of your neck.

“This isn’t something you just heal from.” I state.

“It’s imbedded in my brain.” I rub my eyes; they’re rigid from the previous night’s mascara, smeared from crying. The memory of the two of you lingers beneath my lids.

“I know I’m-“

“Don’t say you’re sorry. You’ve said it a million times… The point is I know you’re sorry. I believe you, but that doesn’t change it. You can’t undo it. I can’t undo it. We can’t undo.”

A sweeping motion with my hand, “It’s done.”


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