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"We should visit New York sometime," I sigh. "Why?" You ask. I cannot answer. I thought you knew. I thought you'd turn to me, smile and say, "Sure, why not?"
Remember that day I put music to our wedding slide show? I must have listened to I Come to You With Open Arms four dozen times. I smiled every time your picture came up - your face as you held that stinky fish. You entered the room and rolled your eyes. "Are you sick of this song yet?" I giggled. "Yes!" You said.
Now I sit here, covered in a peach blanket, watching Annie and Sam. You enter the room and say, "I can't believe you're watching this again."
I don't understand us sometimes. The other day I was dying for some playfulness, to see you grin, have you look into my eyes. I begged you to wrestle with me, "Let's have a pillow fight!" You spoke about someone getting hurt, something getting broken. You finally gave in, halfheartedly tickled me. I swung my pillow. You sat there. I teasingly gave you a hickey on your ribs. You didn't struggle. I admit you did open up, smile when you pinned me, perk up when it turned sexual.
We made love in the closet, just like that one time long ago. I remember that first time being tender, this time was rough, the floor left its imprint in my back. The magic of the act must have left with the old blue stained carpet, replaced with a harsh tan one, no shag to soften my spine.
I want to believe you're Sam and I'm Annie, but most of the time you're not even Walter. At least he always said the perfect thing, could find fate in picking the right China, loved Annie enough to let her go.
by E. M. Soos
