One Fist

fearWhen your ex-boyfriend gets a new house, a new car, and a new phone, you’ll find yourself trying to count the things that haven’t changed—his incredible memory, his playfulness, his eyebrow raise, his gentle hands, and his voice—and end up holding out one hand and one fist.

When he shuffles you out the door before 11 to hide that you’d been there at all, you’ll find yourself at a stoplight agreeing to meet the first guy you could see yourself with a year after the breakup.

When he sits cross-legged in a park and hands you a joint, you take it and you smoke it and you hate smoking and you’ve told him so but he never remembers and you take it anyway because that’s another thing that’s changed.

When you hold your fist out, it’s punching you for not fighting harder when he didn’t want to try anymore, for not asking him why he could remember everything except how much he loved you, for letting him hide that you’d been there at all.


Welcome to Microvember, my take on NaBloPoMo. Each day this month I’ll be posting microfiction, short vignettes, or poetry, accompanied by photography. See more Microvember posts here

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