A New You

You glance over to make sure there’s enough space. He’s in the next car smiling, smiling. A smile that plummets. A smile that’s not a smile, but a shadow. A promise. You notice the cracking. You think it will be fine (it is not). That it will stop and you’ll return (it doesn’t and you don’t). You begin dropping things, bumping into things, weeping, trembling. You smell something odd; you come to recognize it as your fear. It is bitter, unsurprisingly, can’t be soaked or scrubbed away. You infuse it with lavender, knowing nothing on the surface can reach it where it begins. You wonder if anyone notices. Other things return. The bananas and dollar bills. The way he followed you through the store, asked you to be his date for Father’s Day. Is that a thing? Does it matter? It doesn’t. The only thing that matters is what he wants. You know that now. You keep your head down; you don't disappear. Ordinary things make you shudder. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps on the stairs. He says he’s moving back to Santa Fe. He lied. He wants to take your picture. You look out the window. You shake. You wait. The rage begins to quiet. You look for him. He thinks you’re looking for him. 

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