When the sun went down, I saw the man on the sidewalk. He had fallen onto his suitcase with a shopping bag at his feet. The light turned green. A car honked behind me. I drove ahead, but a pedestrian
His dismissal to reduce me to my womanhood and paycheck fucked me.
Am I too old? Nah,
I’ve yet to wear
my trousers rolled.
But this morning
coffee in bed, my wife
and I scrolling —
Hers: prison
She wrapped her arm around his back in a quick half-hug that made it easy for him to tuck the envelope in her purse. She excused herself to the bathroom so she could count it.
I looked him up on Instagram. The only thing publicly linked to him was a photo of his smiling face in the cockpit of a 737, posted by the National Gay Pilots Association from 2020.
I left Texas to have him. Not for him, but for me: so that I would survive.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
"[Her Lesser Work] is a collection of mordant and formally inventive stories circling themes of, let’s say, desire and escape within repressive structures."
-Walker Caplan, Literary Hub
