He’s going to come in after me, I just know
it. I sit on the bales of hay and wait, the dark barn hot around me
despite the early hour. He’ll come in and talk to me, tell me I’m
wrong, tell me he loves me—does he love me? He’s never said the
words out loud. I can’t even imagine what they’d sound like in his
voice.
Time passes—I’m not sure how much, how long
it is I sit there in the heat and the hay, waiting. At some point I
lie down, stretch out on the itchy straw, stare up at the warped
boards that form the roof and squint at the sky beyond. He’s not
coming in here. He doesn’t care, either. f**k him.
Sometime later, I realize I’m not angry
anymore. Tired, yes. Weary… God, so damn weary. But in the center
of my chest where my anger roiled is nothing, just a deep, empty
ache,
