let us pretend that it is morning, and you are stirring sugar into your coffee as usual, and that you did not leave me last Tuesday, and that we scrambled omelettes together, dual spatulas working in concert, before you cruise off in your white Mazda to defend the public. you left the orange juice carton on the counter, again.
let us pretend this is a hetero comedy played for laughs as you stagger off to your mistress who can’t tie a tie. anyone who is in the closet in this story is a guest-star-qua-distant cousin: close enough to provide modern-day commentary on hot-button issues, far enough that the writers don’t have to wade twenty story arcs into unknown territory. in that comedy you’d call me dead drunk in the middle of the day, complain about her like you had been gone for years, and return in time for the big game that weekend.
let us posit that you serve me divorce papers with the same enthusiasm you brought to the restaurant on Monday to announce you found yet another clinic to try to put a child in your body. never mind my body that you are always sizing up as though you are selecting one of our myriad plastic containers to fit leftovers. let us agree that I will not file for abandonment, but I might have a few complaints to lodge. after all, I’m married to a lawyer. next time, I’d like to know the stakes, not be ambushed by a proposal like the heroine in a romcom. I pulled the brochures out of the trash. eggs for breakfast tomorrow.
Maria S. Picone has been published in Ice Floe Press, Moonchild Magazine, and Whale Road Review. A HUES Scholar and TWH Fellow, she won Cream City Review’s 2020 Summer Poetry Prize. A queer Korean adoptee, Maria’s work explores themes of identity and social justice. Her website is mariaspicone.com, Twitter @mspicone.