Me, Undone

I am Lorraine. In the canary yellow dress and petticoat. I've come home from work to place the crumpled brown bag of groceries on the kitchen table. Soft like taffy. Malleable. Imprinted. Easy to upset. Adept at verbal cues and emotional nuances.  A hand on the hip. A swift change in the cadence of your voice. I am stirred by everything you do. And everything you don't. She is T. Drapped in deep green. The color of the stormy sea. She is hard candy. Brutally honest. Disconnected. Jagged rocks for hands. When I arrive, she buttons her tongue to the inside of her cheek. She does not have the language to talk to me, the easily bruised bird. We exchange pleasantries. Talk in between. In spaces. Safe ground. And after we make love, I am empty inside. And so our lives played out like that. For years. Resentment growing like mold on Monday's leftover pot roast. She hated me for my bruising. Not knowing that I bruise because I am alive. All those things denied to her. But the...