This morning I woke up and told Melissa we wouldn’t make it past three months.
We're at month two, and I can feel it.
Either I’d drop her, or she’d drop me, but either way “we don’t have staying power, and there’s no point in either of us pretending like we’re grown ups who can just power through things out of sheer complacency”.
I wasn’t looking at her. Just up at the spackle and a spinning fan.
It’s so hot in here, that we sleep on top of the covers sweating little puddles of skin into the comforter.
Nightly, we mash those deposits of dried salt deep into the mattress with our sloughing bodies to get stuck and form tiny caves of skin and boredom in the springs.
She rolled away from me swirling off a cloud of stale, watermelon shampoo And reached With a tightly domed deltoid towards the blue milk crate where her purse sat.
She rummaged in there, her back muscles working like a landslide of flesh.
She finally dropped the purse, after an effort of five minutes, and I heard the successful flick of a lighter.
She started puffing and chugging down smoke As she laid on her side.
My eyes watered in the bluish smog, and as the fan turned raining down peices of our own skin in a dusty, undetectable cloud of particulates I could just see her, out of the corner of my eye, Shifting the weight of her body from her deltoid to her trapezius.