#93 Stay A While

by Heidi Heimler

It’s 3 AM again. You climb the stairs with lumbering footsteps. I marvel at it, how baggage can make a skinny man sound so substantial. You stop at the landing to do God-knows what. Check email? Text? Breathe? I listen for you. You don’t say a word when you come into my room. You don’t even smile. You just kick off your shoes, toss your jacket on the chair, and collapse into my bed.

Your breath reeks of Scotch, cigarettes and bitterness. I cradle your woes; let you trade them in for comfort. You bellyache about the crappy account that fell through, the snot-nosed twins that never appreciate you, the wife that spends your money. You pour everything into me.

I watch your face when we make love. Maybe you’re saying, “I love you.”

At the breakfast table, you pierce your egg. Your eyes avoid mine. “Gotta get back,” you mumble. On your plate, the uneaten egg bleeds yellow.

Inside my womb another egg, pierced by you the night before, splits. A tiny you takes shape: a you who’s staying.