M. Protacio de GuzmanEpiphany
When I woke up this morning I knew that I didn’t love him anymore. I watched him as he slept beside me, arms wrapped around my waist, face half-buried in the flesh of my shoulder. His loud snores rudely stabbed the silence around us. I struggled to sit, removing the weight of his arms from my body. When I managed to, he turned so that he lay on his back, arms spread on the bed that suddenly seemed too narrow. I rubbed my eyes and brushed my hands through my hair, putting the cowlicks in place. His mouth was open. I could see a fine trail of spittle running from the side of it. I turned away in revulsion.
Before getting up, I held back the urge to cover his face with a pillow or the worn flannel blanket that he loved as much as I detested it. I would have giv
