Superstitions of the Mid-Atlantic
No one around anymore to blame, so, to celebrate, I set booby traps for myself: a glass of water left in the dark hallway to kick and spill later, the chair I neglect to push in, precarious leftovers in the fridge — All those frozen waffles cleared out with our daily misunderstandings. An indulgence to have the place to myself after all this time. The text didn’t send, or fired became Friday, an attempt at airplane reduced autoincorrectly to apples, and now here we are thinking about temptation again. You can come out now, I say to no one. There were never any good exit strategies anyway. You’ve gone missing or I’ve misplaced you like the ritual thank-you letter we received from your mother after her visit and which I left in the entryway mailbox to convince the neighbors we weren’t home. I still don’t know what you meant when you said paradise out loud when we were eating oranges. Now when I am in the kitchen eating peaches I say paradise.