PINPOINTS OF LOVE

revealed surprise, he opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off. “It makes all three of us even, doesn’t it?” you ask, half smiling. He didn’t respond. He just began to open and then close his mouth, wordlessly, intermittently, like one controlled by some sort of magic. done things differently? In another life, we might have a house by the beach, a couple of kids, traditions, routines. I might’ve chosen a wedding dress that skimmed the sea as we walked along the shoreline together, our future spreading out ahead of us, glistening in the early evening glow. Maybe you would have surprised me with an unruly bunch of wildflowers when you found out I was pregnant. Maybe we’d have one or two dogs, a comfortable existence, palpable devotion. Lazy Sunday mornings spent laying with our limbs intertwined. Just us. In the habitual life that we were never supposed to have. Sometimes it’s just nice to imagine. It’s possible that we will never see each other again. We might never cross paths or feel the electricity coursing through our bodies as we embrace. It’s also possible that you wouldn’t like the new me. Have you changed, too? What I miss about you might not exist anymore. I wouldn’t know and may never know. It’s a strange thing to consider: How can two people whose lives were once so intrinsically linked have nothing to do with each other? When you love someone as much as I loved you, I think that they’ll always be a part of you. Do you feel that way? Don’t be a stranger. That’s what you said to me when we broke up. But we could never be strangers. Strangers don’t know how it felt to have you inside me, holding me, rhythmically loving me, accepting me. Before we languished. It would be easier to be strangers. Then, perhaps, I wouldn’t still feel butterflies whenever you happen to appear in my mind. I wouldn’t know how it felt to be completely in love with you. What do you miss about me? What did I do to make you not want me? Was it something I said? Something I did? Did my body change, or was it yours? Do you see me differently than you used to? I wish I could see what I look like through your eyes. But then again, it might make me not want me either. It’s lonely sleeping beside you and sensing your warmth but not actually feeling you, inside me and out. Touching you. You’ve recoiled too many times for me not to get it, not to understand. You don’t want my hands on you. When you tell me to stop, I listen. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable even when your touch is what comforts me. It stung so badly to have your rejection spat in my face all of those times. I’m afraid to try again. But it’s just me, my love. The person you love. Or loved? I’ve lost count of the days, weeks, months since you last held my body, naked, in your willing hands and truly wanted me. You’ve indulged me with the pleasure of you on a couple of rare occasions but I can sense that you’re not fully there with me. You don’t think I notice, but I do. Your eyes are closed. You don’t kiss me. You don’t take your time. It’s as if you’re rushing through something unbearable, anxiously awaiting the end. My n*****s become raw and red as your fingers wear them down. My body moves through the motions but you offer no help. I’m alone even when we’re together. Do I repulse you? It wasn’t always this way. What happened? There used to be mornings when the sun would burst through the cracks in the blinds and you’d hold me close, choosing me over coffee and sticky French toast. And nights when you could hardly wait to get me home, lay me down, and carefully peel each layer away until I blossomed for you. Now you can’t wait to get yourself home and to bed, rolling away from me, barricading yourself under the billowy comfort of our down duvet. You are lost in the cloud of our bed and I can’t seem to find you. I miss the connection we once shared. It seems silly, almost selfish, to long for something like s*x. s*x. You don’t even like me to talk about it. I’ve tried. We float through our days with a peck on the lips. No more, no less. You still tell me you love me, but I’m not sure that you’re in love with me. I feel more like roommates than… whatever this is supposed to be. Is this what a relationship is always destined to become? We move through the regularities of our daily routines but there isn’t any affection in that. It’s cold and it’s meaningless. When we first met, I thought I was all you could think about. I felt wanted, desired. I felt like a woman who was comfortable in her own skin and had finally found a man who appreciated and acknowledged that. Naively, I thought I was through with anyone else. You were my person. You are my person. I’m not ashamed to admit that I have gone through my fair share of men because it led me to you. My body has been craved by others in the past. I remember, however distantly, what it feels like to be chosen by someone. But now here I sit, wondering, hurting, and longing. For you. Choosing you. Do you still choose me? Each day without you feels like another crack in our foundation. What will hold us together when there’s nothing left? Is there somebody else? I wouldn’t even be angry if there was. I think it would almost be a relief to know that it’s not me. It’s you. tomato juice. She’d been making spaghetti, his favourite. He was due back home that evening from a business trip to Atlanta and she wanted to make sure that he had his favourite meal simmering on the stove so that when he walked through their heavy oak door, he would instantly smell the bubbling red sauce and feel at ease as he slipped off his shoes and then slipped his arms around her. Home. Here, in this house. With her. But now he was home early and he was here at the edge of the kitchen and he was leaving her. Leaving? Where would he go? Where could he go? His mother lived all the way upstate. He couldn’t stay with a friend—they would ask too many questions. He wasn’t the type of man to enjoy being quizzed. He asked the questions and that’s all there was to it. There had to be someone else. There had to be. Who? The redhead secretary from the office? Or the divorcée that lived (sinfully) two doors down? Helen from Wednesday night book club? Some blonde bimbo with offensively large breasts he met on the plane? Someone he met here? Where? Slowly, she bent down and reached for the knife. “Who is she?” “Who?” “Don’t lie to me, George.” She flicked the knife in his direction; a few spots of tomato juice landed on his stark white starched button-down. It was one of three shirts she had washed, ironed, and folded to painstaking precision before he had left on business. She had cared so much for him and how did he thank her? By screwing someone else and screwing her over. “Jo, honey. Stop with the theatrics. Let’s talk about this like adults.” “Who is she?” Her blood simmered more rapidly than the sauce. “Who is who? There’s nobody else. I just don’t love you anymore! I haven’t for a long time. Haven’t you ever heard of people falling out of love? It happens, you know.” For a nanosecond, she could have sworn her heart stopped beating. She felt completely lifeless; her soul had vanished from its captivity. Regaining her composure, she took a long inhale. Then, her mind went blank. She allowed herself to surrender fully to her seething emotions. There wasn’t about to be any of this “leaving” nonsense. After all, being a widow is much more attractive than being a divorced woman of twenty-three. Confidently, she strode the five steps it took to reach him, her maroon kitten heels—the ones with the tiny satin bow that she loved so much—echoing on the tiles with each pace. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip. “Jo…” His forehead creased and his lips hung slightly askew. She plunged the knife into his chest, then his gut, and finally, for good measure, once more into the general area where she assumed his ticker must be. If he still had one. She wouldn’t be surprised if when the autopsy came back they found nothing but droplets of melted ice. Son of a b***h! His body fell into a heap at her feet. His eyes bugged out, large and afraid. Incredulous. By George! (And bye, George.) He hadn’t thought she would actually do it. Blood pooled around him but she wasn’t concerned—she’d been meaning to have the kitchen redone one of these days anyway. Better sooner than later. It was the perfect excuse. Twisting on the hot water tap, she casually rinsed the lustrous blade, a mix of warm blood and tomato juice spiralling down the drain. The knife needed to be spotless. She would deal with her dead husband later. She had spaghetti to make.