Post Script Incrimination

Mrs.
Mr.s
Mr's
Mister's
His

She's plain. 
The groom's grandfather described my dear friend to a stranger. She shakes her head and insists that it's because she doesn't wear flashy jewelry or red lipstick.

There's always a warm one waiting somewhere. 
Ten minutes before the ceremony, and with a toothy grin, his brother hints that Jason's freedom isn't entirely sold.

I withheld judgement. I supported. I bought the amethyst dress. I flew to Texas and assured myself that foreboding could be dismissed. I curled her hair and I stood beside her. I smiled and laughed. I carried her flowers. I brought her red wine and bustled her dress. I twirled the little girls who told me I looked like Barbie. I danced with her new husband.

Deflating in coach on the way home, hushed criticisms resonate. My eyes are tired and, instead of working, I stare out the window at the snow covered acres below.

 Lord knows I am jaded, but I have never left a wedding feeling quite like this.

Dear Katie,

My sweet, brown eyed friend,

Please know that you are golden. You are strong. 

You deserve the best life has to offer. 

     xx

     Lulu

P.S. If he hurts you, I will kill him. 

Irrelevant

SB: Hi.
SB: I just wonder if you ever think about me.
SB: You don't have to answer.



A Sonnet from the Archive of Love's Failures, Volumes 1-3.5 Million
by Anne Boyer

If you were once inside my circle of love

and from this circle are now excluded,
and all my love's citizens I love more than you,
if you were once my lover but I've stopped
letting you, what is the view from outside

my love's limit? Does my love's interior emit
upward and cut into night? Do my charms,
investigations, and illnesses issue to the dark
that circles my circle? Do they bother

your sleep? And if you were once my friend
and are now my villainous foe, what stories
do you tell about how stupid those days
when I cared for you? Because I tell stories

of how you must tremble at my love's terrible walls,
how the memory of its interior you must always be eroding

mundane

I used to love nights like this. 

After dinner, when the house was suddenly quiet and we stood alone together in the kitchen, surveying the mess: Purple-stained wine glasses clustered in the center of the table and dirty dinner dishes piled up in the sink. 

"That was fun, " he would say. 

"Yes. I do think everyone had a good time." 

I could taste the bourbon in his kiss.

We would get most of it cleaned up before falling into bed, feeling like such grown-ups. We were married now with grown-up things like matching dinnerware and crystal. We had married friends and threw grown-up dinner parties. We slept in a queen-sized sleigh bed we'd bought together and had a second bedroom that we called "the office."

Tonight it's just me, leaning against the sink, negotiating counter space for the dirty dishes and crystal.

All of these lines..

It crossed my mind to sell his passport to the highest bidder. 

That stupid, childish grin. 

We were going to be married. 

The tiny nose he inherited from his mother.. it never really looked right on a man's face. 

He has the bluest eyes. 

What an idiot.

He loved me then. 

My eyes seared into him as he quietly tossed his things into a single cardboard box. 

"I don't like this," he had the nerve to say. "I don't like you watching me."

"I want to see what things in this house you do care about." 

"Lu..." He looked hurt.

You deserve it, you fucking bastard. 

He filled the box halfway and withdrew. 

Abandon.