He’s home on time.

It’s been years, and I fuck it up of course by blurting out “Why?”

He seems so hurt, so confused. Idiot, I’m an idiot.

Shit, so I start cooking. Make sure to clear out the oven first. It’s Julie, I assume, and he’s prepping for the fight. I’ve been trying to avoid it, I knew but I still hoped…

His hands are on my hips.

His lips are on my neck.

The roux is burning and I don’t care.

My skin’s afire – if you don’t sift flour it goes bad and I’ve gone very bad from lack of sifting and fuck keep up girl-

I ask what he’s done.

Again, he seems wounded, hurt, confused and because I’m so incredibly dumb I kiss him to make it better and fuck it’s the best kiss of my entire life. It’s as if he doesn’t know about anything outside of this moment and this kiss and this shine of attention makes me shiver like I can’t remember when.

This is not the man I married and I love it and I’m terrified.

Something has changed.

He smells wrong.

Yet somehow, I still hope.

He nuzzles my ear and I dream that I was worth changing for.

For a moment, I am, and I feel content. I feel drowsy. The stove is smoking, now, and an alarm begins to whine. His breath washes over me.

I’m weak.

I stagger away and it’s still him, or what looks like him, just so much further away from the him I remember. I indicate the hallway, lead him to the bed and then slip away – he’s asleep almost instantly.

I begin to plan my escape.