Side By Side (Day 47)

Side By Side

Side-by-side, each opening 

a door, they cross the threshold—

familiar, but unsurprisingly foreign. 

She talks without saying much.

Appearing to listen, he wordlessly 

nods and shakes his head, eyes 

fixed on an invisible horizon—

though not unpleasantly so.

He is tall. She wears a black 

wool pea coat. Over the years, 

they have come to resemble 

each other: hair disheveled, similar 

wire-rimmed glasses, the same 

brand of comfortable shoes.

One might easily imagine that they 
pass each other detective novels 

in bed; that he chooses the music; 

and, when they eat out, 

he finishes the food on her plate,

without asking. They cannot linger 

here, where tawdry is casual, and 

casual, elegant; where the big sky 

is purchased at the bargain rate 

of irreversible closure; where small 

thoughts appear to take up 

all the space in the world. 

So, they add milk to their coffee, 

stirring, tasting, and, as they step 

back into the murky afternoon, 

they say: Please, if we ever have to 

live in a place like this, just kill me,

instead. Their laughter is awkward.

Neither will admit to feeling

the dreaded heft of the ropes 

settling around their shoulders, 

even now.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six